


Moonshadow

by sebviathan



Category: Psych
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Found Family, Historical Accuracy, Ireland, Late 1500s, M/M, Multi, Politics, Selkies, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-30
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2019-05-30 05:26:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 76,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15089960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sebviathan/pseuds/sebviathan
Summary: A beautiful man walks out of the ocean and into Carlton’s town, wearing stolen clothes and a seal’s pelt.It’s a full moon.It’s 1590.





	1. Darkest Depths

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this fic comes from the Cat Stevens song of the same name. The title of each chapter corresponds with a Celtic name for the full moon(s) that passes during them, but also, of course, _are_ to some extent symbolic.
> 
> The vast majority of this story is historically compliant, meaning that no events contradict any recorded history that I could feasibly research. Events _of_ recorded history as well as records of day-to-day life of late 1500s Ireland are incorporated as well. Fun history facts along with clarifications of any overt anachronisms will be in the end notes of each chapter. 
> 
> And because I can’t NOT mention it... I really spent over 9 months researching, outlining, and writing this novel-length, extremely obscure period/mythical creature au... for _Psych_ of all things. This is by far the longest I’ve ever spent working on something before posting any part of it anywhere. I’ve literally become semi-fluent in Irish in the process of writing and Getting In The Mood for this fic (and I do intend to continue learning Irish, btw). I’ve watched Luck of the Irish three times in the past 9 months. I’ve actually discovered through AncestryDNA that I personally am a quarter Irish, which is part of what gave me the idea for this in the first place.
> 
> In my defense, multiple characters on Psych are either canonically of Irish descent and/or have Gaelic surnames. Also! I am but a vessel, catching whatever ideas spill out of the ether and thus hold me spiritually hostage until I translate them into human language and construct them into stories.

Carlton is ready to die. He has been ready since those ships carrying the start of a new rebellion settled into An Daingean's harbor, towering above all the wine imports. Since long before then, if he's being honest with himself.

No, he doesn't believe that 26 years denotes a full life just because he's seen quite a few men fail to make it past that, nor does he feel that his life has no worth, like his mother has accused of him. But he does believe that  _one_  life, whether it be his or another's, is nothing compared to the good of a nation. He believes that taking Ireland back from the English crown is worth his death, should things pan out that way.

"Stupid, is what it is," his mother told him, as many times as she got the chance. "The rebellion didn't work the first time and it won't work this time, especially not led by the very same fool!"

What she refused to take into account is that that "fool" is the Earl of Desmond, and that he now has with him troops and resources granted by the Pope himself.

It isn't that her faith is lacking, or that she is an English sympathizer, he's sure. But whatever it  _is_ , Carlton doesn't know nor even wish to understand. Where is his mother's tenacity? Her will? Where is the pride that she once taught  _him_  as an Irish Catholic? How did this complacency befall her?

She is in no shortage, at least, of ruthlessly strong opinions. She never has been and neither has he. They'd had nearly that precise fight, in fact, twice before.

And perhaps they won't ever have the chance to have it again. That's fine with him—if he has to die to avoid ever hearing "what lengths you will go just to spite me" even one more time, then so be it.

 _Is_  he purposefully spiting his mother, now, though?

He knows for damn sure that he isn't motivated solely by that. When the last rebellion was initiated, Carlton certainly  _would_  have volunteered had he not felt responsible for the care of his eight year-old sister. It's only a recent development that Lauren has grown up and left him responsible for no one but himself.

Himself, and his home.  _That_  is what he has and  _that_  is what he aims to protect, as he arms himself and boards the Desmond's papal ship.

Spiting his mother is merely a bonus.

 

*

 

Carlton was ready to die, but not like this.

A year, he's been serving, and traveling, and  _occasionally_  fighting. It's been sackings and skirmishes and... losses. Hardly a battle has passed that he'd have been half a martyr to be killed in.

 _Hardly_  a battle, but for what awaited them after capturing Smerwick.

English forces are ten times theirs, and they are cornered on a cliff, but the fort is strong. Their weapons could provide thousands. And a decent handful of them are Irish, so they of course laugh in the face of death. Jokes abound, particularly, about how dying so close to Samhain wouldn't be so bad, as they'd have the chance to come right back for a drink!

But the English took their time. Samhain passed and so did another week before the siege began—and then very suddenly one morning, their defenses were crumbling before the sun had the chance to rise.

Cue the panic. The chaos, the clamor. Hundreds of soldiers rushing around each other to retrieve extra resources, to make up for the sheer numbers of the English and their artillery, to find the needle in a haystack that now was a strategic position on this side of the fort.

Carlton had the chance to make a single shot before a fellow soldier, thrown by an English bullet, knocked him off of his footing. Within seconds he had no footing at all... and then the siege was growing distant in every sense.

Hardly a battle, indeed.

His back hits the water with a sharp, painful force—it's as though he's hit rock, and that his spine has split in two... but then he sinks.

No,  _no_ —he must get back up there somehow, he cannot waste time with nature when he should be in battle, when he has a duty, a  _promise_. He fights his way to the surface and takes in a deep, panicked breath of air, only to be at the mercy of the waves a moment later. Again, he struggles—he will  _not_  die this way, he refuses—

But he has no power over the ocean, he finds, as his head strikes a rock the next time he's pulled under.

 _No,_  he thinks, very clearly, even as his consciousness begins to fade.  _No, this... this cannot happen._

He should have reacted sooner. He should have stabbed into the side of the cliff with his sword and hauled himself back up. He should have directed his fall, somehow. God, he—he shouldn't have been so stupidly fucking confident to stand so close to the edge in the first place.

The light above him grows ever so smaller. His clothes and armor weigh him down.

He won't be remembered. His body won't be found on the battleground and he won't be a prisoner of war and he won't be executed and if his name makes it to  _anything_ , it will be a list of those missing—of those suspected to have deserted. They'll think he  _deserted_. They'll think he was a coward who only volunteered for the benefits and then ran away when things got tough.

His lungs burn. The rest of him is so, so cold.

He has no wound, no gunshot, no blood leaving his body. He is going to drown, alone and in the darkness... where no one knows him. Where no one will know what happened. If his body washes up on shore he won't likely be recognized, and if he is, he'll be remembered as an idiot soldier who drowned.

It grows so dark that he cannot know which way is up.

Carlton's mother—what will she think? Will she say "serves him right, following such a hopeless cause" or will she say "oh, my poor, stupid son" or will she even hear of his disappearance at all? Will Lauren ever hear? He is so close to home, now, that they very well might. That doesn't necessarily come as a relief.

He can barely move in any direction, no matter how hard he fights.

Perhaps it's his mind fading as he dies, but it does not occur to him to pray to God for his survival. He is already gone, and it is his own fault.

He closes his eyes.

Distantly, Carlton feels something tugging at the back of his collar, pulling him fast through the water. If he could think, he'd guess a beast dragging him to the depths for a meal. But no teeth sink into him, as far as his fading senses can tell; he remains in one, empty piece.

There is nothing. Then there is a great, painful pounding at his chest. Again. Again. That's all Carlton feels, all his existence  _is_  until—

His lungs burn again, but it very quickly becomes a pleasant burn. A burn that comes with  _life_ —all at once, it seems, life is being breathed back into him. And Carlton promptly coughs it back up.

He jerks and he gasps for air, hacking up sea water as he does so, and then his eyes fly open. Rather than darkness above him, now, there is a strikingly bright blue sky, and there is  _light_ , so much that he cannot believe it... and there is a young, naked man whose hand is pulling away from Carlton's face, and who has a grin spreading across his own.

With one of his very first moments of true consciousness, Carlton thinks the man must be an angel, he is so beautiful.

He opens his mouth to say something but goes into another coughing fit instead. Seems he failed to notice, in his awe, the water still in his lungs.

This time, at least, his strength has returned enough that he can push himself up as he coughs and get it done faster. Though he somehow isn't fast  _enough_ —by the time he opens his eyes, just a few moments later, his savior has disappeared entirely.

All Carlton can see is the rock he is sitting on, the shore close by, and the back end of a seal disappearing into the ocean.

 

*

 

No one could expect Carlton to return to the battle. Without scaling the side of a cliff, or impossibly sneaking through English forces, he'd have no earthly way of doing so. The waves and whoever saved him carried him far enough that he can barely even see evidence of it happening, now.

But that doesn't stop him from feeling deeply ashamed as he makes the trek toward his home—toward An Daingean. Possibly the only place he has left and one so conveniently in reach, regardless.

That is, he would feel far more ashamed to attempt to re-join the rebellion army once this siege is done. Whether they might believe his story or not... it's no excuse. He simply cannot face them. He is only  _slightly_  more willing to face his hometown.

When he does make it home days later, however, he is not met with the ridicule he expected. Rather,

"We all thought you were  _dead_!"

Carlton learns, very quickly, more or less how the siege turned out for the rest of the rebellion forces. Any who were still alive when they surrendered were massacred soon after, but for the commanders. And  _they_  have likely been made to suffer worse than death at the hands of the English.

It seems that, what initially seemed a terrible mistake... turned out to be a miracle. By all accounts he should be dead. But he isn't. He is the  _only_  soldier who isn't.

Even more amazingly, those he left behind in An Daingean express no contempt or mockery, but merely relief that he managed to survive and curiosity as to  _how_.

So he tells them, seeing no reason to lie. Though he makes no attempt to convince anyone of the details.

He wouldn't believe it himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The town of An Daingean is a real-life sister city of Santa Barbara, on the southwest coast of Ireland, which is why I chose it. It’s pronounced “Ahn Dan-gehn,” most closely translates to ‘the fortress’ and is anglicized to the name - which I only include here as a fun fact because I’m not going to use it in the story for how ridiculous it sounds - ‘Dingle’. 
> 
> It’s also in one of the very few regions in Ireland that still primarily speak Irish to this day, and you can assume that unless otherwise established, everyone is speaking Irish. For simplicity’s sake, however, most other Irish Things in this fic will be referred to by their anglicized names. 
> 
> The rebellion mentioned is the Second Desmond Rebellion, and the battle/massacre is the Siege of Smerwick. Really depressing to research, honestly. The Irish couldn’t catch a damn break.


	2. Storm

TEN YEARS LATER

 

"You're chipper this morning, Carlton."

Three years of marriage and he still finds himself flushed cold with embarrassment as he realizes what Victoria is referring to. And he still can't be sure whether it's something judgmental he's subconsciously picking up in her tone, or if being self-conscious about his habitual singing is simply a part of him.

"Aw, you didn't have to stop," she pouts a moment later.

"Well, I know how much you hate it when I speak Irish in front of you because you don't understand it—I don't see why singing should be any different," he says casually, focusing more on dressing himself than on her. "For all you know, I could be lyrically conspiring against you, couldn't I?"

She sighs very loudly. "You know I only said it makes me uneasy, and I  _have_  made an effort to learn more since then—"

"Nevermind that," Carlton interrupts as he turns around, now fully buttoned up. "I didn't mean to get on the topic in the first place. As a matter of fact, I  _am_  chipper. Now that St. Brigid's Day has passed, I've finally got a guaranteed meeting with the Sovereign—and I think he may agree with my proposal, this time."

He folds in his cuffs and smiles, and Victoria slowly smiles back.

"Your proposal to push An Daingean into the fishing industry, you mean?"

"Mm-hm."

"...I didn't know you were still after that. Considering the state of the town, I mean—you know, with so many men working on the border wall. Building boats would only take more time and manpower out of that, wouldn't it?"

Carlton considers, for a very brief moment, doing what most other men would do and dismissing his wife's opinion based on her womanhood. But that would be the easy way out of this discussion, and he does not  _ever_  take the easy way.

"Yes, that  _is_  probably what Trout would say," he says smoothly. "But with the much more reasonable  _Vick_  in power now, I think the notion of the town having more food and resources will be a decent enough factor on my side."

He punctuates that with another short smile and pretends not to notice Victoria blanching where she sits.

Still, she clearly feels confident enough to ask, "And what if Vick doesn't agree? Will you get out on the ocean yourself and do what you can?"

It isn't a real question, but a joke against him, as she knows damn well that he will not and  _cannot_  do that. Carlton can think of nothing better to do than ignore it.

"Confident as I am, I do feel I need a haircut and beard trim before I see him formally...," he mutters instead, combing his hair down with his fingers. It passes his nose, so he  _certainly_  does. He faces his wife. "Would you like to do the honors?"

He'd cut his own hair if he had no other choice, but Victoria gets it done so much better, and regardless of her mood she never refuses. She almost immediately and without a word stands up to find their scissors.

Carlton pulls a chair into the middle of the room and sits down in wait, relieved that that conversation is over.

"You know, I have some of my own ideas about how we could have more resources," Victoria says a minute later, as she drapes a sheet around his shoulders.

_Maybe not, then,_ he thinks, wary. "...Really? And what are those?"

"If we moved."

_Definitely not. God damn it._

"Not this again, Victoria," he groans.

"I'm only saying that that  _is_  a way—"

"Even if I  _wanted_  to move away from the town I've lived nearly my entire life, An Daingean  _needs_  me, love. Resources or not—in fact, the lack of resources is a reason to stay, if any! For all their politics, the Burgesses and Sovereign aren't nearly enough to see over this town on their own...  _Someone_  needs to keep these idiots in line," he sighs. "And someone needs to keep the townspeople in line, too."

He hears a soft, genuine chuckle from Victoria at his joke, which sends crashing waves of relief through him. At least he still has that.

Then he continues, " _And_  someone needs to make sure the people here are safe. Now more than ever. You know this."

Along with most other Irish-dominated communities, An Daingean is still suffering from the post-failed-rebellion climate. It's all Carlton can do to prevent cruelty (disguised as laws) from the hands of roaming English officials toward the townsfolk—especially the devout and elderly. He's taken a handful of blows for their sake, even, which Victoria  _certainly_  knows.

"I do," she says, almost as quiet as the snip of her scissors on his hair. She remains silent for only a few more snips. "But I think you might not give the rest of the town enough credit. You're certainly not the only one who wants their safety and is qualified to ensure it... Someone else  _could_  be Sheriff in your place, theoretically."

With that, Carlton stiffens up. His wife's hands still along with him, as she seems to have noticed that she struck a nerve.

"You know I don't mean that you do a bad job, love," she hurries to assure him.

His scowl remains. "Hm."

"But—I'm sorry, but the fact of the matter is that An Daingean doesn't truly need  _you_. It just needs someone. And what of your safety, Carlton? What about  _our_  livelihood?"

"What about it?" His legs want to push him up so he can turn around and face her, now, but he wills himself to remain seated. Ultimately, he'd rather not look at her face at the moment. "You don't think we have a fine spot, here?"

"...It's—"

"We have proper heat," he begins to list, raising one hand to count on his fingers. "We have money, we have status, we have clean water, we have space for a decent garden and then some—we have glass windows! How many people in An Daingean have  _glass_  windows, Victoria?"

"So I should be content simply because it could be worse?" She punctuates that by jerking his head to the left and making a few more snips. "That doesn't sound very Irish."

"Neither does moving to England."

"I never said—"

"And where else could you possibly have been thinking, when you proposed we move just now? I've never heard you mention any place but your father's estate in England—or have you changed your mind about that? Enraptured by stories about the Americas, now?"

For several moments, the house is entirely silent but for the metallic  _snips_  of Victoria's scissors. It seems she may even be holding her breath in embarrassment.

Slowly and smoothly, Carlton continues in her place:

"I don't know how stupid or terrible a husband you must think me, Victoria, to not imagine that I know you and your motives inside and out."

"I don't think you're stupid," she snaps, so sharply it startles him. "I shouldn't have tried to deny my intentions, I'll admit that. But I do think you're obsessed, Carlton."

"...I'm  _obsessed_?" He breathes a mirthless laugh. "With what, my hometown? I believe that's called loyalty, dear—"

"You're obsessed with feeling like a  _hero_. You know, most people would be fine only being responsible for themself and their family—but you need to be needed by  _everyone_. You... perhaps you are distinctly qualified. I won't deny your education or your efficiency with weapons or your eye for fairness, as God knows that was something I fell in love with... But when you make yourself responsible for the lives of a thousand others, however righteous it feels, you neglect your own life and your own home. You neglect your  _wife_."

Carlton doesn't know which is the worse stab—her words, or the casual tone in which she says them.

"...If 'neglecting you' means that I will not haul my possessions to England, of all places, then—"

"You could at least have come with me to  _visit_  last summer. Then you may have seen with your own eyes how we could be better off."

"HA!" He nearly jumps right out of his seat. "Yes, I'm sure that  _I_ , an Irishman, would be better off in England."

She gives a loud sigh. "Well, unless you go  _telling_  everyone... You don't have red hair, you don't even have freckles, no one would have to know—"

At that, he can't  _not_  turn around.

"You would have me not only pack up my life and follow you to your daddy's manor, but— _pretend_... to  _not_  be Irish?"

It's clear on her face, then, that she knows she's made a terrible mistake. That's good enough for Carlton, as he does her the mercy of a mere curt smile and turning back around as though it's nothing.

"The effort to hide my accent alone...," he mutters with a slight scoff.

She resumes cutting his hair in silence for several minutes, this time. There is eventually a niggling worry in the back of Carlton's mind that his wife may be very sad or even afraid of angering him, now, so he decides to break the silence with a soft, forgiving tone.

"We have a good life here, Victoria... I know it isn't the sort of carefree existence you grew up with, but you could have chosen a less burdened man if you'd wanted. You had the lot to pick from."

"I know," she says almost immediately, with a restrained laugh of her own. He doesn't know what that means.

"So why did you marry me in the first place?"

He doesn't mean to ask that, especially not in such a heavy manner—it slips out, feeling like bile on his tongue. Perhaps it's been on his mind more than he knew.

"Well..." Her hesitation does not bode well. "If you loathe the English so much, why did you marry me?"

"...Because I loved you," he answers simply. Though something about it tastes odd, too.

"Then there you go."

That eases his worry just as much as it raises more. But he says nothing of it, opting to remain silent for good until Victoria tells him that he's finished and makes sure all the stray hair is collected in the sheet. Standing up feels briefly foreign to his legs, but once he stretches them out a bit, he turns around to fully face her again. It feels like much longer than it's actually been.

"...I still do love you, you know," he thinks to say. He needs to make sure she knows that.

Slowly, and softly, she smiles. And she nods. "Me too, love."

Relieved, he relaxes his shoulders and runs a hand through his hair, then over his cheeks. It feels perfect.

"You sure your beard isn't too... unruly?" she asks with a laugh, bringing a hand up to feel it as well.

She means if he hasn't changed his mind about liking it this way, or if he's perhaps been forgetting all of this time that such a neatly-trimmed beard makes him odd. He's aware that it isn't popular, yes. But if he's teased at all, he's teased in the same manner as he is for being literate and educated in the matters of math and science. That is, many men don't even have the  _means_  to tame their beards.

So yes, he is sure.  _So_  sure that as much as he'd like to, he can't even bring himself to be bothered by Victoria's sarcasm.

"Don't be silly," he tells her, smiling in a way that he at least doesn't  _intend_  to be superior. "I need to look respectable for my meeting, don't I?"

With that, he leans down to kiss her on the forehead, and he hears her sigh once more before he's on his way out.

 

***

 

He hasn't meant to be gone so long. He really hasn't. But if there's anyone to blame, it's the ocean herself—the waves, for carrying him and his pod so far out since his last visit. Or the moon, for sitting so precariously above the horizon and guiding him so.

Now, for the first time in years, the moon waxes above the Daingean coast.

His home, though only in technicality. His heart isn't exactly there. Gus  _is_  there, however, and that's close enough that seeing it ties a knot in his stomach for every minute he's been away. When has he last taken the time while on land to write him a letter, even? How can he be such a bad friend? How can he forget so easily?

In a moment of distress, he thrashes away from his pod and hauls himself up onto a rock. Then he scans the familiar shore through human eyes.

Of course Gus isn't here now. He couldn't possibly  _know_. But come tomorrow he will, and if there's one thing that Shawn can separate well enough from his guilt, it's how excited his friend will surely be to see him.

So conveniently close to his birthday, too! He should be, what, 29 this year? God, he can only imagine how much Gus will have to say about him losing track of his own age...

And he cannot  _wait_  to hear it.

 

*

 

For all the odd behavior he's dealt with from that man in the past decade or so, Carlton must say, he never imagined to see the big oaf roam into town completely, buck  _naked_.

The general public reaction is to avoid crossing his path and to avert their gazes, he notices. But Carlton does his best to simply keep his eyes on the man's upper half and approach him as he would anyone else blatantly committing a crime.

He also has to chase him down before he can make it to the privacy of his home, dignity be damned.

"McNab!" he finally shouts across the road, getting him to stop. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your bare, lily-white ass?"

The man turns around, shivering violently and keeping his hands over his front bits like his life depends on it.

"Oh, Lassiter—someone stole my clothes!"

"What, right off your back?"

"No, at the cove." McNab seems entirely unfazed by his skepticism. Or perhaps just oblivious. "I was out bathing, and a man seemed to just... come out of  _nowhere_  and run off with my clothes! By the time I got out of the water I couldn't see him anywhere... so, um, here I am."

He gives a nervous, trembling smile, at which Carlton starts nodding slowly. It's believable enough, now.

"Did you see what he looked like?"

McNab shakes his head. "When I say he came out of nowhere I really mean it. I saw him for maybe one second before he disappeared again.  _But_ ," he adds before Carlton can say something derisive, and with a slight smile, "I would recognize the clothes if I saw them on someone else. Francine embroiders all my—"

"Yes, yes, alright—just... go clothe yourself, McNab," Carlton practically growls before he has to hear more. He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Then get back here and help me hunt down your thief."

 

*

 

"It's just so long—"

"And  _soft_!"

"How on earth have you kept it so nice, dear? I've never seen a man with hair even past his  _shoulders_  that wasn't terribly frayed, let alone so long he could nearly sit on it..."

As much as Shawn loves being the center of this sort of attention, all he can bring himself to focus on is his friend's very obvious and terrible jealousy. Whether it's of him for being surrounded by women with their hands in his hair, or of the women for having _his_  attention when this is the first he's seen of Shawn in so long, however... he cannot be sure.

Regardless, he makes a point of smirking at Gus when he tells them all,

"It's an old family secret. Now... how about that cut, huh? Give my friend here a fighting chance so long as he keeps hanging around me!"

He isn't truly doing this at all for Gus, of course. With hair long enough to cut off only half and still make a decent wig—decent enough, in fact, to pay for his cut and braids with that alone? It's about time. Shawn frankly forgot how much it can all get in the way when he's on land.

"Please," Gus scoffs, while the women laugh. "I've never needed to  _fight_."

"Maybe not since the last time I was in town, you haven't."

"Oh, have you been away a long time?" one of the women asks. And the rest all follow suit—

"Are you a traveller? A businessman?—Ooh, are you with the wine ships?"

"What's a man like you visiting a town like this?"

"Well, An Daingean must be his hometown, of course!"

"Why don't you let  _him_  answer, then—"

"Yes,  _those_  are definitely my clothes," comes an unfamiliar voice over the bickering, bringing abrupt silence with it.

The face, however, as the lot of them look up,  _is_  familiar.

At least to Shawn. That is, he saw the man once in the past couple hours. Next to him is a man he only recognizes in the vaguest of ways.

"He  _looks_  like a thief, doesn't he," Carlton spits, looking him up and down and paying no mind to the rest of the group. "That seal pelt yours too, McNab?"

"No," he says, and looks like he's about to add onto that, but—

"Well, I'm sure he stole it from some other poor sap. Didn't you?" the man finally addresses Shawn, at which he realizes that all but the woman cutting his hair have left the scene. And even she has stilled.

Shawn's instinct, as he stands, is to laugh.

"Alright, alright—let's not get ahead of ourselves," he says, giving a once-over to the angry man and then looking to the other. "Yes, I stole your clothes—McNab, was it? I'm sorry for making you walk into town naked, but the alternative was walking into town naked myself, so—you see what I'm getting at? Truly sorry. But once this lovely woman finishes cutting my hair, my friend here can let me borrow a set of his clothes, and I can take these off and give them right back to you! That sound alright?"

McNab smiles easily. "Yes, that's—"

"Uh-huh," Carlton says with a laugh of his own. "And you're going to give that pelt back to whomever you took it from, too?"

Shawn snaps back to him immediately, face twisting into a  _bizarre_  expression.

"I didn't steal this from anyone. It's  _mine_ , and I don't know what the hell gives you the impression otherwise, but—"

Carlton snatches the pelt off his waist before the man can finish, and notices not only  _his_  eyes go wide with evident terror, but his friend's, too. It's odd, but he only has room to feel righteous.

"Maybe it's yours, maybe it isn't—maybe you  _did_  only steal a man's protection from the elements because you thought you had to. But you committed a theft regardless." His tone is icy as he folds up the pelt best he can and tucks it under his arm. "And you're going to do some work for McNab here to make up for it. If you don't, you won't get _this_  back."

"What? No, I don't need any work done." McNab, in all his innocence, instantly breaks Carlton from his smug look. "It's fine, Lassiter, I swear. He said he's giving me my clothes back!"

Leave it to McNab to be the one man in An Daingean (in all of  _Ireland_ , probably) who would so quickly forgive a man who wronged him, let alone refuse  _free labor_.

"Very well," Carlton inhales sharply, still staring at the thief. "You'll just do work for me, then."

Recovering from the whiplash of relief crashing through him and leaving him again so quickly, Shawn takes a moment and sputters.

"You—but I didn't do anything to  _you_!"

"It's the  _principle_  of the thing." Normally he would only have to explain that to a child. "I know your type—always getting into trouble, no work ethic... right? That's why you couldn't just take the embarrassment. That's why you have to pester your friend here for clothes that  _he_  worked for instead of—"

"And who the hell are you to decide the 'principle' of anything?" Shawn damn near  _shouts_ , incredulous, right in this stranger's face.

"Um, Shawn," he hears Gus mutter behind him, but ignores him.

"I don't give a shit if you think I don't have a  _work ethic_ , you're not my  _father_ —"

" _Clearly_ ," Carlton shouts and gets in his face right back, hand inching toward the blade on his hip, "you're not from here! I'm An Daingean's sheriff...  _Shawn_. And I happen to have a fence that needs repairing. You can start as soon as you'd like your pelt back."

With that, and with deep pride, he turns to walk away.

"Wait, I—" Just as he expected, Shawn strides after him. "You don't understand. I can't stay in town long—I need to leave before tomorrow!"

Carlton turns back, just to see the desperation.  _The entitlement, really._

"Hm. Better hurry up and get your haircut, then. I'm sure your friend knows his way around town well enough to help you find my home when you're done."

 

***

 

"Carlton, get away from that window."

It's only upon hearing Victoria that he realizes quite how long he's been standing here, watching that man through the foggy glass. Really, watching the soft glow of the lantern he lent him moving in the dark.

He looks back at her for only a brief moment before returning his attention to it.

"This is his pelt right here?" he hears her ask.

He hums in response.

"...It's very large and well-kept, isn't it? And you said he seemed desperate not to part with it."

He hums again.

"So he  _will_  get the work done. Even if he doesn't—even if he just runs off with the lantern and as much cabbage as he can carry... Well, then we have this sealskin pelt that will surely sell  _handsomely_."

She then seems to wait a moment for him to step away from the window. He doesn't.

She sighs deeply. "You know you don't need to watch him like that, Carlton."

"Maybe I simply  _want_  to," he finally says, "did you think of that?"

"I did, and I was frankly hoping it wasn't the answer— _Carlton_ ," she practically whines, now tugging him away by the crook of his elbow. " _Why_  are you so obsessed with this man?"

He stares back in alarm and narrows his eyes.

"...If you're trying to imply—"

"He stole some clothes and then gave them back, love. And you're staring at him like he  _killed_  somebody."

Carlton opens his mouth but struggles to respond, as he knows that she's right. He knows, and in this rare moment he  _accepts_  that he's being irrational, and... Relieved as he is that he won't have to relive one of their very old fights, he can't help but ask himself the same question, with the same underlying implications.

Why  _is_  he obsessed?

"There's just... something very  _strange_  about him," he finally tells her, unable to keep himself from glancing out the window again. "I can't put my finger on it. I don't know if perhaps I'm... subconsciously reading him as dangerous, or— _I don't know_. But... this man—'Shawn,' he's called. Somehow shows up in town without any clothes, appears to be good friends with the local Apothecary even though I've  _never_  seen him in town before... You have to admit it's odd!"

"Perhaps it is," she admits quickly. "But I don't know how you're going to get to the bottom of it by losing sleep and becoming a window ornament."

...Perhaps he won't. Still, the lantern-light out there tempts his desperate curiosity.

He has to tear his eyes away.

"You're right. I'll come to bed."

 

*

 

It has been so long— _rightfully_  long—since the sight of the full moon gave Shawn so much fear.

And it just had to be the first time in years that he visited home, didn't it? God. What  _happened_  to An Daingean since he last left?

Gus offered to help him with the fence so that it would get done quicker, even, but Sheriff Lassiter wouldn't allow it. Because of the stupid  _principle of the thing_.

And now here he is, wasting what little use of his arms he has out of any given month to fix a stupid fence—something he has absolutely no experience with in the first place and which Lassiter doesn't seem to care about,  _either_ —

—and watching the moon arch higher and higher in the sky, dread growing in his stomach.

Shawn tries to work quickly, he really does. He tries to face away from the moon so its light won't distract him—except that faces him toward the ocean, which only fills him with more worry. He tries to keep his head down entirely, to focus only on the wood and the nails, to just  _do_  the damn punishment so he can get his skin back...

When the moon begins to lower, however, his panic truly sets in.

Surely it will be possible for him to get this done before this moon fully sets, but then what?  _Then_  surely Lassiter will want to inspect the fence, and what if he refuses to do so right away? What are even the chances that he'll be satisfied? Shawn hasn't done the least bit of carpentry since he was a child and can barely hammer a nail to save his  _life_.

God, he's doomed.

He can't do this. Not now, not  _this_  month, he wasn't prepared for this, he can't—

He can't hear a damn thing from the inside of the house. Not a single noise has come from that direction in over an hour, he realizes in a heartbeat, nor has he seen the faintest light through the window.

And that lock doesn't seem like it's very hard to pick.

 

*

 

The lantern-light, while dim, is what wakes him up.

Then, for a split second as his body catches up with his brain he locks eyes with the thief, who stands only feet away from the open doorway, seal pelt draped over his shoulder.

His heart beats. He blinks. And the thief is gone.

Carlton shoots up at once, hand reaching behind him for the claymore on the wall—and next to him, Victoria shifts and starts to mutter, "Carlton, what—?"

But he's out the door faster than he can even register that—out in the night and the cold, in his underclothes, armed with a sword half his height and chasing that man down. And nearly tripping over the dropped lantern just past the fence.

"HEY!" Carlton shouts after him from the bottom of his lungs, unconcerned that he may wake up any neighbors.  _Surely_  this man must know how stupid it is to run from a  _sheriff_? "Stop! Thief!"

"You're the one who took it from  _me_!" the man shouts back, somehow maintaining a fantastic distance ahead even then.

Even as Carlton himself feels the burning cold in his lungs urging him to stop, or to at least slow down.

_Must be some kind of athlete,_  he rationalizes. By Christ, he  _must_  be—after several terribly prolonged minutes of chasing him through the fields and getting no closer, after his knees painfully threaten to buckle, after  _he_  of all people feels compelled to give up and the thief just keeps  _going_...

Except—

_Where the hell_ is _he running to?_

_And what the hell is he—_

"What the hell is he  _doing_?" he finds himself slowing down to wonder aloud, utterly baffled.

Watching him slow down as well—to hastily remove his shirt and trousers as he does—distracts Carlton, momentarily, from where they are. He's cornered the thief on a seaside cliff. There's nowhere further to run.

The moment Carlton understands this, he finally allows himself to stop, to plant the tip of his sword in the ground for support, and to regain his breath.

Shawn, meanwhile, keeps going.

"Like another ten paces away is going to make a difference up here?" Carlton laughs, loud as he can.

And then in part to humor him he starts after him again, even slower than a walking pace.

Shawn has the pelt wrapped around him now, he notices by aide of moonlight. And as he seems to reach the very edge, he glances back just once, eyes wide and dark.

At that, Carlton thinks he sees the thief's plan. He has to laugh again.

"Hey, if you want to drown, then drown! I'm sure it's worth it!"

Then he dives, head-first, off the edge.

Every part of Carlton freezes, then. He doesn't move or blink or breathe until he hears a distinct  _splash_  apart from the noise of waves hitting the cliffside—at which he's immediately bounding for the edge himself in spite of the visceral fear it brings him.

His knees hit the grass for his own sake, allowing him to clutch at the edge and peer over in horror and shock.

_He actually—_

"The bastard actually fucking did it," he mutters.

Carlton doesn't know precisely how long he spends there, hunched over and watching the waves, nor does he know why. After not long at all he can at least be certain that he won't see the man come up for air— _who_  could hold their breath that long?

Who would  _survive_  a jump like this into such cold waters in the first place?

_What kind of idiot chooses_ this _over..._

It's as baffling as it is horrific, and it isn't until sunrise that Carlton manages to tear himself away from it. That he finally stands up, brushes himself off, and looks around at the garments scattered over the cliff.

_The clothes he borrowed from his apothecary friend,_  Carlton finds a sobering reminder.

Somewhat absentminded, he gathers them. He folds them up and carries them under one arm, sword in the other, to the Apothecary's doorstep.

He considers knocking and delivering the news that  _your idiot friend jumped off a cliff,_  but he decides to simply leave them in a neat pile out front instead.

 

*

 

_Seems I was right to be 'obsessed' with a 'mere petty thief,'_  he can't help but think as he nears his home.

It feels very odd to be smug, now. But he's sure that this will be fleeting, that he can't dwell on a criminal like this for long—as  _crazy_  of a story as this will be to tell, especially to Victoria...

"...Victoria?"

He opens the door to find the bed and the main room empty, and hears no response when he calls her name. Frowning, he strides to the kitchen, then to the second room. Both empty.

She isn't out in the yard or using the jake, either.

Very soon, he's running back into town—still in his underclothes—asking anyone and everyone if they know where his wife went, if they've seen her this morning, if they saw someone else near his home when he wasn't there—

But no one knows anything.

Or no one admits to it.

She's just... gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long, unruly hair and beards was an Irish custom for a long time, and when England initially took over, to cut it short would have made you seem like you were ‘defecting’. Meanwhile, working in law and politics and needing to appear acceptable to both your fellow Irish townspeople AND the English sovereign whom you serve directly under? You’d want to be at a sort of halfway point, which is what Lassiter is doing.
> 
> Here’s the first big anachronism: The spelling ‘Shawn’ is an anglicization of Sean and would definitely not have been used until centuries later. BUT they’re speaking and not writing, and this is fanfiction anyway, so.
> 
> Honorable mentions from canon in this chapter include: Trout, aka the terrible temporary chief from season 8, and of course Vick. Though I’ll tell you now that for this story Vick is more or less just a name that I’ve just attached to the Sovereign, which was actually closer to being like a mayor of a town. Basically her actual character unfortunately didn’t have much of a role in this story, but I still wanted to put her name in it.
> 
> Oh, and a ‘jake’ is what they would have called an outhouse.


	3. Lenten

If Victoria had been taken, she'd have screamed. She'd have fought back and done as much damage to her surroundings as possible. Carlton knows this.

And, well. Nothing is broken. Nothing is missing. Nothing is even out of place. No mussed up blankets to suggest a struggle, either—the bed was  _made_  when he got home.

So he looks closer. He doesn't know what he's looking for but he looks for  _hours_ , searches every inch of his home for any clue to why his wife is gone or where to... And he stops, abruptly, when he realizes that the one thing he has not found are Victoria's _shoes_.

If she put on her shoes, that means she went outside of her own volition. And if truly no one saw her, then she must have gone out in the dark.

"What was she doing out in the dark?" Carlton asks aloud, crouched alone on the floor of his house.

She couldn't have been following him, or he'd have noticed.

The truth of it—the obvious truth that he has been carefully avoiding, stepping around,  _refusing_  to touch since he first noticed Victoria's absence... finally begins to creep up on him. And when it does, something in his gut tells him that he's been dreading this for a long time.

Except  _dreading_  implies that he believed there was a chance it could happen before now—and how could he have? It pains him to think that he might have  _seen_  the signs and done nothing but bury them, just as badly as it does to think that Victoria left him on purpose.

Whether he did or not, this feels impossible. For her to have done this, she...

She'd have to have  _planned_  it.

She either left with no belongings but her clothes, or she was secretly already packed with belongings that Carlton didn't even know she had, ready to—

Ready to escape him? Was she  _waiting_  for the opportunity to sneak out when he wasn't home to stop her, under the guise of night? Did she watch him chase that thief down and hurry at once to put on a dress and board the first ship she could?

"No," he growls, shaking his head at his own thoughts, pacing around the room, now. "She wouldn't, she didn't—of  _course_  she wouldn't!"

But the only alternative is that she was killed, and  _expertly_  so—

And is it absolutely terrible of him that he has an easier time imagining _that_  than Victoria making the personal decision to leave? Is he damned if it kills him worse to think that she hates him than that she is  _dead_?

Carlton knocks his back into the wall, forces back every last tear threatening to leak from him, and breathes a shuddering, heaving breath.

He thinks he's been damned for a long time already.

 

*

 

Carlton was never particularly concerned with marriage before he met her.

He never felt any need to move up in status through  _that_  institution, as opposed to his own hard work, that is. His mother never attempted to arrange anything for him. No other parents in An Daingean wanted a bastard like him for their daughters, either, nor did any girls in town catch his eye.

Women who  _do_  have always been far and few in-between. He supposes he's always found it difficult to get along with them—and it may be very odd of him, but he can't bring himself to desire any woman who can't hold a conversation.

Too many things about him have always been odd, always kept him from connecting properly with other people, always kept him walking on eggshells no matter  _how_  hard he worked to gain standing...

And Victoria was the miracle who made him feel like a real man—a real  _person_ —for the first time in his life.

That he managed (or  _she_  managed) to convince her father to allow their relationship is an even bigger miracle. That she even wanted a man of his stature in the first place! That he had the opportunity to court a woman for matters of the heart and nothing else... He considered himself the luckiest man in Ireland for a long time.

He can't be sure when it is that he stopped. Or if he ever did stop.

The fights began coming regularly after a year. He doesn't know what started them, either.

She wanted children. Is that why? Because he failed to give them to her?

How long has she been planning this? Since before their last argument over moving away? Had she already decided to leave whether he followed her or not?

... _How_  has it come to this?

He wanted to let himself believe she may come back after his initial meltdown. He kept to his side of the bed and pulled out a second plate at dinner, just in case, for several nights after.

But it's been a week, now. A single week and Carlton has so harshly fallen from grace already—they may not say anything, but he notices the difference in the way other men look at him. He notices the pity, at best, and the sadistic glee otherwise.

He is supposed to be an authority in this town. He's a man of justice and of peace-keeping, a man to be obeyed and in some cases feared... And yet he is so uncharming that he cannot keep a wife. That his wife would _run away_  in the middle of the night, meanwhile he knows of many men whose wives hate them and stick around anyway.

It all serves only to remind him that something is wrong with him—that something has  _always_  been wrong with him.

It's been a week and he simply cannot take it, he cannot take being  _alone_  in this house nor the eyes on him when he's out of it, he cannot take the whispers and the hints of rumor and the constant reminder that Victoria so unceremoniously ripped herself right out of his life...

It's been a week, and the plants in the garden are dying. Seems he couldn't notice until it was too late.

It's been Victoria's duty to tend to it for the last three years. Somehow, it didn't even occur to him that without her here, he might have to pick it up if he wants the benefit of free food.

Now, however, he feels no panic or urgency to fetch a watering can. He can't bring himself to do anything but stand here and watch them slowly wither through the fence.

_The damn fence is still broken,_  he realizes with similar numbness. At least to start with.  _Of course that thief couldn't finish before—_

Before running off.

Before becoming a reason for Carlton to be out of the house in the middle of the night.

"He's the goddamn reason," Carlton growls, still to no one but himself and the plants and the fence. "She wouldn't have even had the  _chance_ —"

Without entirely meaning to, he brings his fist down so hard on a panel of wood that it breaks off. As he watches it do so, he can barely feel the throb of pain in his hand and instead has the inexplicable,  _stupid_  urge to laugh.

At least he isn't the only one falling apart around here.

 

***

 

If Vick had outright granted his proposal rather than merely agreeing to "consider it," perhaps he'd have more work to do. He'd have fishermen to recruit and building plans to supervise and overall  _very_  little time to himself...

Time to himself has been a curse, lately. But even constantly patrolling the town can become that without the distraction of townsfolk coming to him frequently with complaints, or fights in the tavern that need to be broken up. He's better off remaining at home for much of the day.

He thinks he spends more time at home in the next week than he has in the last year.

He also finds it increasingly difficult to be angry with himself for it, or to even find relief in being needed throughout the day.

So when there is a not-particularly-urgent-sounding knock at his door one early afternoon, Carlton takes a generous moment to pull himself out of his chair, and to drag himself across his house.

Then he opens it to a young, fair woman whom he does not recognize at all—and somehow he is suddenly  _very_  self-conscious, even before she speaks. What a mess of an impression he must be making, with his sloppy dress and his unkempt hair and a full fortnight of no trims to his beard, and as a  _sheriff_ no less—

"Who are you?" slips out of his mouth before he can stop himself. But he supposes it can't make him seem much worse than he already did.

"Oh, um—" She seems startled. "I'm Juliet O'Hara." And  _Scottish_. "I just arrived in An Daingean—"

"Yes, that's why I asked who you were," he says, more gravelly than intended. "I suppose you must know I'm the Sheriff, so I know every face in town..." Then he frowns and leans over her, very serious. "Someone causing you trouble already?"

"No, actually!" she beams, startling him in return. "I was told to come here. I'm looking for a place to stay, you see, and the tavern was full but some men there said that  _you_  recently had some space open up, so—"

She stops herself, likely upon seeing him scowl so quickly and so deeply.

"Oh. What—?

"Those men were joking around," he tells her, voice even as he can keep it. And he's about to just shut the door on her, then, but—

"Why would they joke about something like that?" She sounds far too concerned for her own good.

Carlton keeps his eyes on the ground and wipes a hand over his face.

"It was at my  _expense_ , girl—"

" _Juliet_."

"What?" His head shoots back up to catch  _her_  frown, now.

"Or 'O'Hara' if you prefer. I already told you my name and I didn't think I had to specify that I like to be  _addressed_  by it. If you don't mind!"

Then she flashes him a smile, at which Carlton flinches, to his own terrible surprise. He'll admit, she just became much more interesting. But then he remembers what she's doing here and scowls again.

"Then listen, Miss O'Hara. The men at the tavern were screwing with the both of us. I do not have an 'open space.' I have... a wife, who has been away."

That's certainly enough sharing personal information with a complete stranger for a month, let alone one day—and as the realization of how  _much_  he has said crashes through him, he finally starts to close the door on her.

But she sticks her foot through before it can shut all the way.

"Please, Sheriff—"

"I told you I'm not interested," he comes close to shouting, now.

"I can do work in exchange for lodging!" she insists, shoving the door further open with surprising strength. "I'll do all the menial stuff that you don't want to—I can clean, I can make a  _helluva_  meal, I can build, and repair, and sew... I'm a bit of a jack of all trades, if I do say so myself. Master of several."

She grins breathlessly, and then, as he raises an eyebrow,

"...Please. I just need a place to stay for at least a few nights—you can kick me out when your wife gets back!"

Carlton's heart skips at the mention of Victoria. This girl seems to be oblivious to the truth behind her being 'away'... He isn't sure whether he finds that endearing or deeply annoying.

He doesn't know why he's even allowed her to speak this long, rather than putting his full strength forward and shutting the door for good.

"Why An Daingean?" is what comes out of his mouth next, startling the both of them.

"What?"

"Why are you  _here_  in the first place?" He allows the door to be pushed fully open again, but narrows his eyes. "Come all the way down from Scotland, alone... for what? The wine? Is it your life's dream to housekeep for a sheriff?  _Or_... you're running from something, aren't you."

She purses her lips and squares her shoulders. "As a matter of fact, I'm avoiding an arranged marriage. This place is about as far as it gets from home, and... well. It seems like a nice place to settle in. I really prefer to be on the coast."

She says that like she thinks it'll make a difference to him. Like he'll think,  _oh, she_ really _prefers to be on the coast? Why didn't she say so before? I simply_ must _house her!_

But it does occur to him that because she travelled so far to avoid a marriage, she certainly wouldn't be interested in him. What's more, she's far too young to even serve as a reminder for Victoria. She looks younger than his sister, even.

She could _be_ his sister, he finds himself thinking—then stops himself abruptly. What is he doing? He cannot  _seriously_  be considering this.

"Does that look mean you're considering it?" she asks brightly, referring to his frown.

He immediately tries to put on a different expression. "I—"

"Or is the marriage thing against your...  _sensibilities_  or something?"

"No, I don't care about that—"

"So I can stay here?"

" _I didn't say that_ ," he gets out like his life depends on it. And then,  _damn_  him, he hesitates to continue.

They lock gazes for an uncomfortably long time—hers hopeful,  _his_  intensely hiding how much he's beating himself up on the inside for not being able to definitively turn her away.

What the hell is wrong with him all of the sudden?

"...But?" she presses softly, breaking the silence.

_God dammit._

"You will sleep in the second room and you will provide your own bedding," he finds himself saying, his own voice suddenly foreign to his ears. His eyes independently unfocus themselves from her excitement, too, even as he's looking in her direction. "If you touch any of my belongings, especially anything hanging on the walls, I will know. If you prove not to be skilled with what you claimed to be skilled with, I will not give you a second chance. If you  _steal_  from me, I will not hesitate to ban you from the whole of An Daingean, let alone my house."

None of that seems to deter her in the least, as she continues to jump in excitement and chant her thanks, and even attempts to throw her arms around him—

" _No_ , no, no no no—" He pushes her away, possibly a little too harshly, in a panic. " _None_ of that."  _I'm still coming to terms with the fact that I agreed to this at all._

She just gives him a sheepish grin.

"Sorry. My family is all very friendly with each other... you know."

"Well, don't expect friendliness from me," he growls. "I'm not your friend. I'm your  _Sheriff_ , and... as of now, your landlord and boss."

His shoulders slump and his lungs deflate with those last three words, at which he turns around and walks out of the doorway, one hand gripping firmly at his own hair. Then he hears the girl walk in behind him and immediately twists back around. Though he doesn't know what she could possibly do with his back turned only for a moment.

"So... should I start right away?" she asks slowly, looking around at the place with clear interest.

"As a matter of fact—" It dawns on him just then, and floods him with an odd sort of relief. "My fence  _is_  in dire need of repair."

 

*

 

A great deal of An Daingean's residents have known Carlton for most of his life, and thus would  _know_  if he had a second sister. Claiming her as a cousin is the next best thing.

Claiming her as family is just about the only thing that will keep popular suspicions at bay—that is, allowing a single woman of viable marrying age to live in his home so soon after his own wife has left. Of course, many will likely think it unbecoming of him to give a woman the responsibility of his physical labor regardless.

But public opinion of him can't get very much lower, can it.

And that fence, as well as the garden itself, is in proper condition sooner than he even expected. Juliet quickly proves herself as useful as she promised she would be.

If not, perhaps, a little too talkative. No  _complaints_ , thank God, but...

"I think you have a hard time grasping the concept of me  _not_  being your friend," he says gruffly as she, for the fifth morning in a row, attempts small talk at breakfast.

And for the fifth morning in a row, she doesn't become particularly upset or otherwise deterred.

"Well, you not being my friend doesn't mean I can't be yours. And to be quite honest, I think you need one."

He nearly chokes on his eggs. "You think I  _need_  a friend? I have friends!"

"Oh!" She actually looks  _happy_  for him, somehow. "Who?"

"Who—well, you... that's—none of your business, and I don't have to tell you because  _we_  are not friends!"

He then tries very hard not to look at her at all before he sets out for the day. Which her presence  _has_ , at least, gotten him back into the habit of doing.

It's more or less the same thing the next morning. And the next. Bit by bit, she tries to draw more personal information out of him—he can tell that  _is_  what she's doing. He just can't figure out  _why_.

"I only want to become a little more familiar with the man I'm living with!" is what she tells him when he grows openly suspicious. "We can't possibly stay strangers under the same roof for long, Sheriff."

But that can't be it. She must want something more out of him—even as she merely asks about navigating the town, about his time as a lawman, about this house and its history and the array of weapons hung up on the wall and the history behind  _them_... Even as he finds himself proudly explaining how he had a personal hand in forging many of his swords and how he kept that arquebus from his time as a soldier and  _yes_ , it  _is_  still functional, and—

And each time, when he finishes, he feels a cold shame seeping through him and shutting his mouth for a long time afterward. He doesn't know why he can't just ignore her entirely.

Maybe she's right about him needing a friend. Truthfully, Carlton wouldn't have called anyone but Victoria a friend in the past few years. He'd forgotten what it was to have lengthy, civil, personal conversations of an entirely platonic nature. He didn't imagine he'd even  _want_  to.

_I still don't want to,_  he tells himself, nevermind how his mouth seems to open on its own at times. He certainly has no desire to confide in Juliet about anything that  _matters_...

Nor does she actually seem to have interest in them. For all his suspicion in her possible ulterior motives, she doesn't ask about Victoria. He can't be sure that she even knows the  _name_  Victoria—though surely someone in town has gossiped to her or at least mentioned his situation, which makes it even more surprising that she hasn't brought it up to him... But he should be grateful for that, shouldn't he? That she can be respectful and pretend not to know?

Unless she isn't pretending at all, which Carlton desperately  _needs_  to know. But he can't ask without clueing her in if she  _is_ truly in the dark.

So... he's stuck.

 

*

 

Stuck until, as fate has it, he receives a letter.

There's no avoiding the attention that comes with that, particularly in that it's handed to him on the docks, that it bears an English crest on the wax seal... and all on the day preceding St. Patrick's, no less.

There's especially no avoiding Juliet, who's sweeping when he brings the letter inside—who sees it in his hand across the room, who cannot contain her curiosity because  _to be fair, you're not a merchant, and not many men around here are literate otherwise, let alone important enough to receive letters from overseas_ —

Who luckily cannot, at least, see the writing on the inside.

 

_Dearest Carlton,_

_You should know that I've arrived safely at my father's manor, and that I was not taken against my will or harmed in any way. I know how you worry and I did not want you to waste time on notions of such._

_I apologize for the time it's likely taken for this to reach you. I admit I did not start writing until several days after I arrived, out of nerves. I also apologize for leaving so abruptly and without a proper goodbye, but to be quite honest with you, I was afraid you may do everything within your power to stop me._

_I of course have no worries as I write you now, as I am sure you already had a good idea forming in your head of where I'd gone. You said yourself that you would not follow me here. I would have no qualms were you to go back on your word, either, so long as you did not instigate my father or his guard. But I can only assume that you will not._

_Yours, if you still wish it,  
_ _Victoria_

 

Carlton holds in his hands the only correspondence he's had with his wife in nearly a month, and somehow, it brings him no relief. It is in fact all he can do to set the paper down on the table and wring his hands together so that he doesn't rip it up right here and now.

So he can now either prove Victoria's assumptions wrong and go back on his  _own_  word and do the  _impossible_ and pack up his life and get on a boat to England...

Or he can prove her right and never see her again.

...Or he can change her mind.

It just vaguely occurs to him that even though she says nothing, Juliet can surely see him as he jumps from his chair and begins frantically searching _—_ for some blank parchment, or paper, a quill pen, an ink well... none of which he's had much of a reason to use in his home in a long time. They've been buried underneath more important things since then, wedged between boards, living at the bottom of boxes that he hasn't gone through in ages...

He finally gathers them in a pile on the table in front of him, parchment laid out and quill poised to write a response:

 

_Dearest Victoria,_

 

...That's all he can push out of himself. For another minute or so he stares at the blank page, struggling to make the right words come out of his pen.

 

_Please come back—_

 

No, that sounds desperate.

 

_What were you afraid I might do to make you stay? Were you afraid of physical force or harm? What have I ever done to make you believe I might hurt you in any way?_

 

_Fuck_ —that's not off the table entirely, but he definitely can't start off with that. Still, Carlton furiously crosses it all out and starts over.

 

_Dearest Victoria,_

_I hope you know that you have just made the biggest mistake of your life._

 

After stabbing a period at the end of that one, he stares at it for much longer than he means to. He knows that he has a terrible desire to say those words to her, to make her feel the way she made  _him_  feel when she left...

But it feels wrong. It feels like a mistake of its own. He can't be sure he'd even feel satisfied, sending that—but as of now, he has no  _idea_  what would satisfy him. The harder he thinks, the less articulate he finds himself, even mentally. The worse words seem to escape him. The less he even  _wants_  to think of Victoria right now, the more he wishes she had never sent a letter in the first place—

Finally, he gathers everything back up and sets it aside, and he seals the letter away. He'll come back to it later, he tells himself. But for now he needs it out of his mind.

Once free, without any conscious decision, Carlton's hands reach for the bronze short sword on his wall.

"What are you doing?" comes Juliet's voice across the room.

He sees that she's finished sweeping in the time he's been here, manically reading and rereading and searching and staring and scribbling. He supposes, now, his behavior must have seemed very odd. Bordering on  _mad_ , probably.

"I'm going to clean and sharpen some of my swords," he tells her honestly. It's something he often does when he desperately needs to calm down, and something she'll likely witness many more times in the future.

"Oh," she says simply. But he can see the telling gleam in her eyes and her short nod.

He doesn't know why he says it, other than that he's taken by a similar impulse to the one that made him allow Juliet to live here in the first place:

"...Would you like to help?"

She grins and bounds across the room immediately.

 

***

 

Had that strange man not shown up in town and stolen McNab's clothes precisely a month ago, Carlton likely wouldn't think twice about this.

Before one month ago, he seldom interacted with the local Apothecary at all. He could put the face to the profession if he had to, but he wouldn't have known the man's name—which he considers a good thing, for the Apothecary's sake. It means the man doesn't get into trouble enough, or at all, for Carlton to be terribly familiar with him.

Which makes it even odder that the man should be friends with a vagabond thief who caused so much trouble in a single night... but Carlton hasn't really thought about that in these past weeks.

Now, he puts more than just a profession to the face, and he notices the Apothecary do the same,  _very_  odd thing, several days in a row: He leaves the boundaries of the town in the direction of the shore, carrying nothing and wearing normal attire, and he returns an hour or so later looking no different.

Carlton realizes after a week that he even does this close to the same time each day. While he can hardly recall  _ever_  seeing the Apothecary out and about before, now he can settle up when the sun is in the right place in the sky, and watch his doors, and be sure to see him walk out soon after.

Why he doesn't simply stop the man on his way out of town and ask where he's going, Carlton has trouble justifying. Though he supposes that it may very well be something personal and not at  _all_ his business, sheriff or not—hell, it could be some grieving behavior that he would be  _massively_  rude to intrude upon...

He thinks that he might just be afraid to face the man after watching his friend jump off a cliff. Worse, to be obligated to explain it.

That, and, as puzzling as it is, the Apothecary's behavior doesn't actually warrant a confrontation. He can practically hear Victoria telling him that he's getting too deep into this, that he's paranoid, that he's  _obsessed_ —

"What are you watching for?" he hears one afternoon, and as he's startled out of his focus he damn near believes it's Victoria for a second.

Then he twists around to see Juliet. He lets go of his breath.

"...What do you mean?"

She doesn't look at all convinced by his feigned ignorance.

"That man—you've been frowning suspiciously in his direction since he left his home,  _and_  I'm fairly sure I saw you watching him like this yesterday, too. So... what's he done? Or what do you expect to catch him doing?"

In her innocent curiosity, Juliet has managed to freeze Carlton entirely. For a minute, it feels like, he can only repeatedly open and close his mouth in lieu of a response, and he can hardly fathom that she actually noticed his behavior in the first place, and—

To hell with it. He's been dying to tell  _someone_.

"In three years I've rarely seen that man leave his place of business, let alone the main area of town, but then a month ago another man—who is apparently a friend of his, whom I've never seen in town before at  _all_ —shows up and steals some clothes and then instead of simply completing some work for me as punishment, he runs away and _jumps off a cliff into the ocean_ , and almost exactly a month later—which was about two weeks ago— _this_  man, once again a friend of the other one, suddenly starts taking day trips out of town every day at the same time for no apparent reason!"

Oh, God. It sounds crazy now that it's come out of his mouth. Especially having come out all at once and leaving him so breathless and intense...

And only now does every mundane, perfectly _reasonable_  explanation for the Apothecary's behavior occur to him— _He might be trading something small enough that it can be kept in a pocket. Or going for swims in the bay. Or simply meeting with another friend. A girl. A patient! Or maybe he just realized that he needs to get out more for his own health, so he's taking walks!_

Carlton mentally prepares himself to hear Juliet laugh and say any and  _all_ of that, but instead hears, after a moment,

"That  _does_  sound very strange..."

He blinks.

"It does?"

Her blooming curiosity doesn't even seem to falter, then. In another moment she's looking around to check if the man is still nearby, at which Carlton is positive she'll ask him why he hasn't done the obvious and just  _asked_ —

"And I see how it  _would_  be unbecoming of you to confront him directly...," she adds casually with a sideways sort of nod, and a hand drawn up to her mouth as though in deep thought. "Even if not, if he truly is doing something wrong then he isn't going to tell the truth to the  _Sheriff_ —unless... Well. I suppose I can go to the Apothecary alone and pretend to have some kind of ailment—a minor one, of course, nothing that would take long to clear up and become unbelievable in the future—"

" _Wait_ —" Carlton throws a hand out and stops her, feeling terribly whiplashed. "You— _what?_ "

"Well, if  _you_  try to ask questions under the guise of having a rash or something or other, it still might put him on guard, won't it?"

She says all this like there's no good reason that Carlton shouldn't be entirely caught up with her intentions. It only gets him more flustered and struggling worse to find the words.

"I meant—you..." He frowns deeply at her, then averts his gaze to the ground, and then wipes a firm hand down his face to right himself. Finally, and clearly, he manages to say, "You... want to help me."

Juliet raises an eyebrow and gives him a lopsided sort of smile. "Of course!"

"Why? I'm not—you understand I have nothing extra to give you for this."

"I'm not trying to kiss arse, no," she laughs. "But now that you've explained the situation to me, I'm curious! It's probably the most interesting thing I've heard since I arrived. Are you saying you don't  _want_  my help? Because—"

"No, that's not what I'm saying at all," he says quickly, at which she seems to hold back another laugh. "I just..."

_Never expected anyone, let alone_ you _, to go with me on something like this,_ would be the truth.

_Think I may have misjudged you entirely and am in fact_ very _grateful to know you right now,_  would be another.

"...Wanted to make sure you weren't expecting any kind of pay in return," he finishes.

"Well, I'm not."

"Good."

"Except—I  _will_  need something to pay the Apothecary with. For whatever he gives me."

Rational as that is, Carlton still finds himself annoyed and rolling his eyes as he digs around in his pouch for a single, silver farthing.

"I'd say to just bat your eyelashes in hopes of a discount, but no one in An Daingean can afford to be giving away anything for free, lately... Here. Tell him you're constipated—he can't see proof of otherwise, and if he's decent he won't charge more than this for a couple prunes."

She keeps her gaze on his and gives him a funny look as she holds her hand out for the coin.  _So_ funny that Carlton has to ask.

"What?"

"Is there a reason you, ah...  _happened_  to think up that ailment so quickly?"

Now, he scowls.

"Just go do the damn thing."

"Hm."

 

*

 

Juliet thankfully does not give him any kind of knowing or mirthful look when she drops the prunes in front of him, later.

"Well?" he implores, positively  _eager_  as he stands from the table.

"I had to wait about exactly the time you said he'd take to get back—a little over an hour," she tells him. "Although, you know—he's _very_  polite. He apologized profusely nearly the whole damn time I was there, promised me he  _never_  makes a habit of keeping people waiting like that—"

"And?" Carlton snaps, stepping forward. He can see a sort of dreamy look washing over her and he wants her to just  _get to it_. "Did he tell you where he'd gone?"

"I was just about to say!" She sighs loudly and rolls her eyes. "...I asked him, casual as I could, what kept him away from the shop so long just now. And he  _froze_ —but just for the slightest moment that I could tell. So that  _was_ already suspicious... but then he merely told me he had obligations to a friend."

She shrugs as she finishes, leaving Carlton bent awkwardly forward and wildly disappointed.

"...Did he say anything  _else_?"

"He asked me what it's like being the cousin of the Sheriff, especially living with him—word really gets around, huh? I don't think that necessarily made him suspicious of me, though."

Now Carlton sighs and scowls. "Well, I think it absolutely could have."

"Mm, I don't think so," she says, screwing up her face and folding her arms  _very_  self-assuredly. "If he was suspicious of me, I think I would have known."

"And how would you have?"

"Because he was also quite the  _flirt_." Juliet looks the most smug, then, that he's seen her in these past weeks. Carlton's face drops. "And in my experience, women are the only ones who can successfully play both sides like that. So I promise you, whatever he's doing every day—if he's telling the truth about 'obligations to a friend' or  _not_ , he did not suspect a  _thing_  from me."

Carlton has nothing more than petulant babble to say to that, for now. So he supposes that they'll just have to wait and see.

In the meantime, he thinks he ought to leave Juliet's presence and put those prunes to good use.

 

*

 

It doesn't occur at all to him, when he first notices, that it is exactly the two month mark since the incident. It isn't until  _much_  later that Carlton mentally kicks himself for not quite putting any of it together.

Really, it only seems like  _one random late afternoon_  that the Apothecary leaves his shop an entire hour later than he normally does. For the first time  _not_  empty-handed, but rather carrying what looks like a small bundle of clothes under one arm.

In retrospect, that does spark something in Carlton that he should have recognized. But in the moment, all he can think is that  _the Apothecary is breaking his pattern_.

Therefore, his own duties be damned, he simply  _must_ follow him.

Or  _they_  must—as Juliet has been similarly watchful since she first helped him with this, and she of course notices him breaking his own pattern as well. He at first hesitates to let her trail along with him, but it soon becomes clear that she is going to do what she wants.

"We stay no less than twenty paces behind," he mutters sharply as they move along. "Got that?"

"Mm-hm."

"And we don't follow where there's nothing to hide behind. If possible we find a parallel or higher route—"

"Yes, yes, I know," she whispers back. "You think I've never spied on anyone before?"

"Well—then... be  _quiet_."

She obeys that, at least (possibly more than  _he_  does) while they follow the Apothecary out of the bustle of the inner town and to the quieter, surrounding hills.

Before, Carlton thought that the man was actually briefly leaving town every day. Now, however, he quickly sees that he's not only headed directly to the shore, but to a pocket of a beach that requires a bit of careful climbing to get to.

It also seems like a dead end for them, until Juliet points out a part of the cliff's edge where they could have a clear view of the beach while remaining hidden. And when they do... it looks empty but for the Apothecary.

"You think he's waiting for someone to arrive by boat?" she posits, quiet.

He frowns deeply, watching the man sit more or less still on the rocks below. "...Perhaps."

_He must be,_  Carlton thinks. The only other way someone could get here is the same way the Apothecary came—in which case, why  _here_?

So they crouch on the cliff's edge and wait, watching the expanse of the ocean for any vessels. But nothing makes its way into view. Nothing except, after several dreadfully empty minutes,

"A pod of seals," Juliet notices, sounding vaguely delighted. "Look, coming up on the shore."

He looks, and he's similarly delighted in spite of himself. There are about ten heads and tails poking up out of the water, ducking back down periodically as they swim closer to the rocks. It's been years, Carlton thinks, since he's seen a live seal.

"Maybe they're what he's waiting for," he says with a slight laugh.

Immediately after he does, he notices the Apothecary shift and stand up for the first time since they all got here.

"...Maybe they are," Juliet agrees.

If the notion that  _this man has been sneaking off to this hidden beach every day for the past month just to see some seals_  wasn't odd enough, it's only a moment later that, where a seal  _certainly_  was a second ago, a man begins walking out of the water. A  _naked_  man, but for a seal pelt draped over his back and arms. He unsticks his hair from his face and beams in a way that Carlton can somehow recognize, even from all the way up here.

"It's—" Juliet gasps and starts tapping his arm furiously. "Carlton! It's a  _selkie!_  I've... oh, Lord, I've heard  _stories_ , of course, and I've talked to some people who claimed to have met one or even that their great-grandfather  _married_  one, but... Oh, wow. I never thought  _I'd_  get the chance to see one, the transformation  _itself_  no less..."

"Don't be stupid, they're just fairytales," he snaps out of some kind of instinct.

The other nine seals swim close to the man, closer than Carlton would  _ever_  imagine a seal to willingly remain to a human without biting them, as he leaves the water.

"What are you talking about?" Juliet snaps right back. "It just happened right in front of you!"

It did. And it still  _is_ happening, as he cannot tear his eyes away.

"Neither of us can know for sure what just happened," he says, and swallows.

The Apothecary holds out the bundle of clothes to the naked man, whose familiarity is as certain as Carlton dreads to think it.

_No,_  is what he does think. He doesn't know what to believe except that he has only one choice, and that he  _hates_  his choice.

Then all notions of higher thinking fly out the window when the man he witnessed  _jump off a cliff into the ocean_  two months ago looks directly at him.

_No, no, no, no, no._

Carlton is immediately on his feet and practically leaping away from the cliff's edge, then making a fast pace back into town. All the while the mental chant of  _no, no, no,_  continues with the beat of his step, so intensely that he barely notices that Juliet has been following right by his side.

"What a strange, contradictory man you are," she says when they've reached the edge of town again, startling him back into the world.

He tries not to appear as such. "What are you talking about?"

She shrugs and smiles wryly. "You're  _obsessed_  with the very old laws of Ireland—with doing things as close to the traditional way as you can get away with, and your very old Celtic swords and the like... But you're not convinced of the world of myths and magic? You're really telling me, Carlton, that you don't believe in  _any_  of it?"

"I did when I was a  _child_." He makes a point of cocking his head toward her then, but she doesn't seem at all offended. "And then I grew up, and I never saw any evidence of those myths being true, so I stopped."

"Really? Never?"

"Never."

She lets out a laugh almost immediately. "I've never met an Irishman who didn't claim to have a rumble with some fae at least once."

"Well, as you've said, I'm a very strange man," he grumbles, only looking forward, now.

"...I suppose part of believing is  _wanting_  to believe."

"Not for me. I'm a Catholic."

Irritated as he knows he appears, especially as he avoids questions and conversation from other townsfolk, Carlton is grateful for the distraction. For a good half hour of resuming patrol, he's able to push down everything he saw at the beach to where he can't worry about it. It becomes more like a dream than a memory—and  _surely,_  he finds himself thinking,  _surely it was in fact not real at all!_

Surely.

Until Juliet, who left to the house, returns within minutes and grabs him by the arm to pull him away.

"What's—?"

"We've got a  _guest_ ," is all she'll tell him, even while he follows.

And he hardly even has to be close to his front door before he understands exactly what she means.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up until the past century, marriage was really never synonymous with love in the least, and women were largely the property of their husbands in Christian-dominated areas. You’d be extremely lucky to be able to spend your life and have a family with someone you genuinely loved, and you’d be even luckier to be a woman married to a man who didn’t take advantage of his legal rights over your whole... personhood.
> 
> And you’d be the LUCKIEST to actually have the option to run away from an unhappy marriage - a frankly redundant set of words, for the time period. “Failed” marriages would have been a concept practically unheard of.
> 
> But Lassiter’s failed marriage is, I think, intrinsic to his character arc in canon, and so I did what I could to keep it. 
> 
> BTW, for anyone who doesn’t remember - him being Catholic isn’t just an Irish thing for this fic. He was raised Catholic in canon.


	4. Budding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who may not know, Beltane is pronounced “Behl-tah-nuh.”

Unfortunate obstacle that Sheriff Lassiter might have been, Shawn certainly wasn't going to let all that stand in his way of visiting home—visiting  _Gus_ , for the first time in so long.

... _Trying_  as it was, too, to be patient and stick around for another month.

Poor Gus had no way of communicating with him for all that time, either. Though unbeknownst to Shawn—until the next full moon, that is—he  _did_  have his clothes returned. And he'd believed that it was Shawn who'd left them there.

Rightfully so, as the notion that the  _Sheriff_  would bother to do that, after the way he treated Shawn, wouldn't have occurred to either of them.

But when March came and brought that full moon with it, Shawn waited until dark and ran into town wrapped in only his sealskin, unlocked Gus's door with ease, and, still dripping with ocean, woke him in his bed to finally, hastily explain what happened. He told Gus where to meet him in the following days, and then got back in the water as soon as possible.

On several of those days, the two of them discussed what he planned to do about the incident—what Shawn is doing right now. He established weeks ago that he would want to be alone for this, that this is  _his_  business to take care of.

And yet, part of him wishes he had Gus to keep him company while he waits outside the Sheriff's home. Part of him is somehow  _nervous_ , standing here by himself—for what? What the hell is he afraid of? That... he'll get in  _trouble_ , again?

Then he finally notices Lassiter in the distance and goes back to feeling relieved to be alone.

He leans against the front of the stone house with folded arms as he watches the man walk up, a much younger woman at his side. She looks intrigued.  _He_  just looks... intense.

Shawn decides to be the first one to speak, as no one else seems to be able to.

"...I see your fence is fixed."

It sounds so casual, and is flanked with such an  _amicable_  smile, that Carlton feels a deep laugh bubbling up against his will.

"No thanks to you," he says, with much less vitriol than intended.

" _Wait_ —" Juliet starts abruptly, but expectedly—"You... know him?"

Carlton ignores her in favor of merely staring at the Lazarus in front of them.

Shawn stares back, but the woman does get his attention.

"I bet she fixed it," he says, pointing to her and grinning between both of them. "She looks like she's good with her hands—and I swear, I mean that entirely out of respect, ma'am. Just look at the muscle on those arms!"

While Juliet flushes, speechless and clearly a bit flattered, Carlton isn't amused. He maintains his frown and turns sharply to her.

"Would you mind leaving us?" He trusts she'll understand it to mean  _leave us now, please._

She glances back and forth between them several times before gasping to herself, " _Oh._  I get it. I'll go."

Precisely what she "gets," Carlton isn't sure, but he's thankful as Juliet starts jogging on the path back to town. And as soon as she does,  _he_  starts forward, grabs his guest by his collar, then his front door by the handle, and he pulls the man roughly inside.

Shawn figures, as the door slams shut behind them and as his collar is released, that Lassiter simply doesn't want any neighbors getting curious. He can also quickly assume,

"Judging by how you're  _not_  asking me how I could possibly be alive, I take it that was indeed you who I saw up on that cliff."

Carlton hesitates, but quickly convinces himself that there's no point in denying it.

"It was.".

"...So you know what I am."

No amount of mental preparation could have kept Shawn's heart from racing upon looking the man in the eyes and saying that. He can't remember the last time he's told  _anyone_  the truth when he didn't intend to leave immediately after... It's a little exhilarating.

"All I know is what I saw," Carlton says reflexively, but even he knows that that's bullshit, at this point.

"Same thing," Shawn shrugs in spite of himself. "And don't worry, I don't mind that you saw. It actually makes things a lot easier for me!"

"...Why?"

"Well, because I'm here to  _explain_  things, of course. And now that you've already seen the transformation itself with your own two eyes, I don't need to prove anything, do I? ...Has anyone ever told you that  _your_  eyes look like a storm on the ocean, by the way?"

Carlton promptly narrows them and says nothing. Shawn cuts his losses and continues,

"...Listen, Sheriff, I'm only here telling you this because I want to be able to visit the town and  _not_  have to hide from you whenever I do. You need to know that I wasn't avoiding punishment that night—I promise you, I wouldn't have left if I didn't  _have_  to!"

At that, Carlton shifts and cocks his head, and spits, "Right, I remember you saying the same thing about stealing clothes."

Shawn sighs loudly and rolls his eyes.

"I've never had to say this, but—you've heard the selkie  _legends_ , haven't you?"

"...Some of them," he says after a pause, willing himself not to feel an ounce of embarrassment. "Forgive me if I have some more important information stored ahead of it."

Shawn sighs again. "Well, to put it simply, if I  _hadn't_  taken my skin back and left before sunrise—or moonset, really, but you get funny looks when you say that—I would have been stuck as a human for a month. Stuck as in, sure, I  _could_  have transformed back before the next full moon, but then I would never be able to be human again! See my problem?"

"And you couldn't just handle a month as a human?"

Christ, he feels odd saying that. Like he's in a damn dream.

" _No_ , because it's been... a long fucking time since I was human for a whole month," Shawn tells him truthfully. The weight of that suddenly hits him, and he has to spend a moment willing himself to continue. "...So I panicked. I wasn't planning it, and I wasn't ready for a  _month_ of resisting the urge to get back in the water—but now I am! Alright? And this time I'll actually _do_  whatever little chores you want me to do, to make up for skipping out on the fence. I swear. As long as you let me stay in town."

With that, Shawn does something that feels utterly foreign, but appropriate, and extends his hand for the other man to shake.

In a sort of shock, Carlton merely stares at the hand for several seconds.

He has no idea what he was planning to say when he dragged this man—this thief, this...  _selkie_  into his home, nor what he expected to happen. For a moment he tries his damndest to dredge up an imagined alternate scene, had he led the conversation... and he imagines nothing.

All he can picture, standing here now, is how the man in front of him looked exactly two months ago. Standing in this same spot, having broken in, crouched in the lamplight. Fleeing with a kind of endurance that Carlton had never seen before. Turning from petty thief to what looked like a grand, outrageous act of suicide.

To speak with him now and to have no choice to believe that he was  _justified_  in doing all that...

Whatever Carlton might have had to say to him, he knows one thing for certain now.

"No," he says.

Shawn's hand drops at once, along with his face. " _No?_  You can't possibly hold that much of a grudge for—"

"You can stay in town or not, I don't care—but  _no_  you won't be doing anymore damn chores for me," he growls, moving to open the door. But before he can,

"Hold on—" Shawn mentally kicks his own ass for pushing his luck, but he has a hard time believing this. "Just like that, I can stay? You  _really_  don't want anything from me?"

Carlton makes the mistake of catching his gaze and, for the first time in this conversation, finds it genuine. Almost... familiar.

In that moment he very intensely wants  _nothing_  to do with this young man of myth.

"You've ruined enough, thanks." And he once again has the back of Shawn's neck in his grip, the other opening his front door back up. "All I want from you is to  _get out of my house_."

 

*

 

The door slams behind him, and Shawn is left frozen in place, feeling as though he's been thrust into a new world entirely. After a few seconds he comes back to it all and shakes himself out, and he turns to look back at the house.

_What the hell was_ that  _about?_

Curiosity almost tempts him to just knock on the door and demand an explanation, but this time, Shawn makes the outright decision  _not_  to push his luck. Instead he starts walking back the way he came.

Still, it's all he can think about as he makes his way back to town. It probably shouldn't matter so much to him when he  _got_  exactly what he wanted—he isn't banned from town! And not only does he have  _no_  responsibility in return for it, but he didn't even need to break out the charisma or make any bribes, like he was prepared to. When has he  _ever_  caught such a lucky break?

But when has he ever been given one so confusingly, either?

As though somehow hearing his unspoken questions and feeling a call to help, soon after the fields end and the path fades into road, the woman he saw with Lassiter earlier comes running toward him.

"You're the man he told me about—the one who stole some clothes and jumped off a cliff, aren't you?" she says before she even stops, breathless and beaming.

He blinks, caught off guard, but then smiles.

"I guess I am. And  _you_  are..."  _Definitely not his wife,_  as Shawn remembers seeing her.  _Mistress? No, Lassiter just doesn't seem like the type. A friend? ...He doesn't seem like the type for those, either._  "...His sister," he decides, reaching out for her hand.

The woman's eyes widen brightly, and she lets him take it.

"Close! I'm his cousin, Juliet... You  _were_  right earlier, though, about me fixing the fence—is that a selkie thing?" she asks, leaning close with her voice suddenly hushed. "Reading minds and the like?"

"Um... a little bit, yes," he lies, just to keep her childlike enthusiasm going. It's refreshing to see someone so...  _into_  this. That, and the truth of it is just much less interesting. "It's involuntary, and more like reading...  _places_. And feelings. So don't expect me to know what you're thinking right now."

He finishes with a chuckle, which gets her to laugh in return, which gets  _him_  to think to ask,

" _Actually_ , Juliet—about... the fence. Was it, um—" He quickly realizes how weird this will sound, but he needs to know, "...Before you fixed it, was it... in particularly bad shape? Or did Lassiter maybe... say something about me breaking it worse than it was before, or anything like that?"

"Oh." She gives him a reasonably odd look. "Well... no, I don't think so. Why?"

Huh. That's one thing off the potential list of what he's supposed to have "ruined."

"No reason," he tells her.

 

*

 

Gus set up a makeshift bed for him on the floor next to his own, but Shawn doubts he'll wind up in it tonight. Not only because hay and a blanket will be a pathetic substitute for the natural give his body has as a seal, even when sleeping on  _rock_ , but...

Sleep simply will not come to him the same, tired as he is.

Nighttime has largely meant nothing to him for over a decade, now. Darkness means nothing. He and the rest of his pod nap in  _turn_ , briefly and several times a day, sometimes in a manner that he's sure humans aren't even  _capable_  of... and he has not slept while in human form in years. He feels like he may have even forgotten how to do it.

It occurs to him, as he sits upright in a chair by the window long after Gus has fallen asleep, and as he watches the rising and falling of his friend's chest across the room, in the dark, how truly different their worlds are. How permanently distant he's become ever since he left An Daingean in the first place. How little of that distance Gus can likely even comprehend, no matter how much of selkie life Shawn tells him.

After all, he looks perfectly human when on land like this, save a sort of uncommon beauty. And he knows perfectly well how to  _behave_  human, as he almost always gets a night of practice out of the month. Even if he doesn't quite feel like he belongs here, at this point.

That is, this is the time of that night that he takes his sealskin and returns to the sea. This is his  _last_  hour, if even that, to do so before the curse would damn him.

But he remains sitting here. His skin hangs on a rack behind a closed door. He needs it there so that it is out of his reach—so he can't be tempted so quickly. Meanwhile he puts the sky right in  _front_  of his damn eyes, because... well, because he has nothing better to do but watch it slowly change into morning.

Because if he's going to stay the month, he needs to get used to this anyway. Especially when he knows he won't sleep the next couple nights, either.

The moon has set much farther, now, than he allowed it to before escaping two months ago. He feels a pulse of the same anxiety, but more as an echo of a memory than otherwise. In hindsight Shawn has to think that it was a bit stupid of him at the time not to realize how many hours he truly had left—to actually  _panic_  like that...

Gus told him, earlier, about what happened the very same day. He only heard it through town gossip, and hadn't thought to tell Shawn before because, in his words,

"It didn't seem relevant until now."

_Now_  being when Shawn showed up at the apothecary earlier, coming straight from Sheriff Lassiter's house, with an odd story to tell and a burning question. And now he  _does_  know what Lassiter believes he's "ruined."

And Shawn has to wonder if it really is his fault. If the man's wife would still be here if  _he_  had stayed—not even necessarily past moonset, but just long enough to finish the fence and then bang on Lassiter's door until he gave him his skin back. If his impulsive decision to just take the skin and run  _was_  in fact the catalyst for Victoria Lassiter to up and disappear herself.

He understands how her husband would believe that. How he might even  _need_  to. But Shawn doesn't think he personally can, regardless of how little of their marriage he knows. Maybe he just doesn't like the thought of being to blame for something like that.

Maybe he's already got enough things that he blames himself for. Is it so terrible to not want to add to that—to not want to feel guilty over a near  _stranger_?

Is it stupid of him that he kind of does, anyway?

Those strings, thankfully, only tug on his heart as long as the moon remains above the horizon. Shawn watches it sink below and at that moment, so does his panic. It's drowned in the intense wave of exhaustion, of  _calm_  that washes over him and makes these past hours of restlessness feel so, so worth it.

He still won't quite get to sleep, but he can't bring himself to mind. Nor can he bring himself to dread the full month ahead of him or even to yearn for the ocean, or for his pod, or for his sealskin.

He only yearns, he realizes as he turns to watch Gus again, to finally breach that distance between himself and his home.

 

***

 

Juliet will not shut up about the damn selkie.

Worse yet, she's  _very_  much aware that Carlton wishes she would, and so she just as often demands to know why.

"For the thousandth time, I don't trust him an inch. And if  _you_  weren't so caught up in the...  _mysticality_  of it all, O'Hara, neither would you!"

Truth be told, he absolutely intends to offend her with that. Three days since the selkie showed up and Carlton has hardly spent a solid  _ten minutes_  inside his home without hearing something about him. About the far-off nations he claims to have visited, or the other creatures of myth he's confirmed to exist, or the powers he supposedly has—about him being able to  _read minds_ , as though  _that_  should make Carlton like him...

He doesn't want to hear it as much as he doesn't want to talk about  _why_  he doesn't. And neither of them can reasonably just leave when their dinner is boiling... so a scathing remark is his best option.

Too bad Juliet doesn't seem particularly affected.

"Well,  _I_  think that if you talked to him just a bit more, you'd get caught up in it, too," she says with a shrug as she chops some greens for the pot.

"Has it occurred to you that that's why I  _don't_  want to talk to him more?"

"Yes, actually! It has! And frankly, I don't understand you—!"

"Hm, yes—we establish that at least once a week, don't we?" he grumbles.

She continues without acknowledging that: "You learn, for what—the first time in your life, right?—that selkies are  _real_ , and then so must other Good People, and you don't even care? You're not  _interested_? I can't believe you don't even want to go ask him questions—"

"And how would I have any left to ask in the first place when  _you're_  running back and forth to tell me all the answers I never asked for?" Carlton snaps.

That one, somehow, does shut her up for a minute. Though he realizes that she hasn't become upset so much as introspective. And focused on removing froth from the stew.

"...If you distrust him so much, why even let him stay in town?"

He stops his tongue in its tracks from telling her that  _you sounded like Victoria, just now_. Really, it's a question he's been dreading.

"There are plenty in An Daingean I don't trust. I don't trust my own  _mother_ , O'Hara. Doesn't mean I think they should all be banned from town... Without untrustworthy people, I wouldn't have a  _job_ , now, would I?"

She actually smirks at that, he can tell, even as she directs it at the stew.

"You wouldn't have a job without  _interacting_  with those untrustworthy people, either, I don't think."

He scowls. "I  _certainly_  wouldn't have a job if I chased down fae instead of plain,  _mortal_  people whom I actually have authority over."

Her head snaps up, and he immediately knows why: Still, not because she is in any way insulted. But that this is the first time he's actually, vocally admitted to the notion of the selkie being  _above_  them in any way. That there's real weight to his mythical status. That it isn't just a childish fancy.

And he sees Juliet's eyes widening, and her smirk stretching—

And he needs to put a stop to it before it can go any further.

"Go listen to the selkie's damn stories when you're unburdened with work, I don't  _care_ , O'Hara, just— _quit_ trying to convince me to do the same," he finally growls, abruptly pacing across the room for no purpose but his own anger. He makes sure, now, to catch her eyes so she can understand how serious he is. "Truly! You don't need to justify yourself for having a friend your  _landlord_  doesn't like—I couldn't give less of a damn if you spent every free minute at the apothecary, braiding the selkie's hair with him or... whatever else it is that you do there! He'll be gone in a month anyway, so get your fill of it. I don't care. So long as you do me the  _mere_  service... of allowing me to have  _nothing_   _to do with it_."

In the near silence that follows, filled only with his own heartbeat and a simmering pot, Juliet finally does look vaguely sad. Seeing it doesn't feel great. But then, he didn't expect it to. What he  _did_  expect, at least, is what happens: She apologizes, and not another word about it comes out of her mouth for the rest of the evening.

Funnily enough, it only takes dinner to finish for Carlton to realize that  _this_  doesn't feel as great as he thought it would, either.

 

*

 

Of course, outside of his own four walls, Carlton has no choice of whether he's reminded of the selkie. No choice other than changing his entire daily route around town just to avoid catching sight of him—which he is  _not_  going to do, no matter how tempting it might get. He refuses to let some fae influence his life.

But it truly  _does_  become tempting, with each new time he has to watch or hear the selkie get on with the folks of An Daingean.

Two months ago, the very first moment Carlton laid eyes on him, he was doing the same thing he is now. And Carlton did understand then what sort of man he was, thief or not, fully  _human_  or not:

A  _charmer_. A man who gets what he wants by simply asking for it, because he makes every stranger a friend. Because he's been blessed with a face that catches the sunlight in all the right ways, and a smile that loosens up both women and men.

Because of his goddamn  _hair_.

It didn't particularly matter to him two months ago, when Carlton stopped the charm in its tracks with the women cutting the selkie's hair. But  _now_... well, knowledge of his selkiehood isn't what makes the difference, Carlton doesn't think. Even if it surely has something to do with why so many are enchanted with him.

It's that so fucking  _many_  are enchanted with him. It's that this town is Carlton's work and his  _life_ —it's his job to know the ins and outs of the machine that is An Daingean, to make sure it functions smoothly, to fix or even do away with faulty parts as needed... and that this man seems to be on a mission to make his mark on each of those parts.

It's that in little more than a week, this man has clearly won the favor of people who haven't yet even warmed up to  _him_. Carlton can hear the damn conversations as he marches by—the raucous  _laughter_  between the selkie and old sailors who've never so much as smiled in his own direction—

Or the giggling of groups of women, who otherwise grow awkwardly silent when Carlton comes near.

Or children, who naturally avoid the Sheriff for fear of being seen as troublemakers even when they're not, but who approach the selkie on their own and  _beg_  to touch his braids.

Or even the local  _cats_ , who are friendlier with him than Carlton has ever witnessed them behave with anyone. In some cases, including their own damn owners.

...Or just the loud, so far mostly  _nonsensical_  conversation he'll have with his apothecary friend out in the open—of whom Carlton can't be sure if he's truly seeing more lately, or if the man was simply too inconspicuous before.

What's worse is that he hasn't actually done anything wrong, yet. That Carlton, in sticking to his own very set code, cannot reprimand him any more than he can avoid him. It feels as though the selkie is taunting him on purpose, somehow.

It is in fact a surprise, when the selkie first undermines him  _directly_ , that it took eight entire days to happen.

And that Carlton only comes upon it by accident.

 

*

 

"You expect me to believe that? You've been stealin' from me for  _years_ , you—"

"And don't I always admit it and pay my dues? How would I even eat a whole pie—?"

" _Ha!_  That's a real question? You could fit three damn pies in that gullet o' yours, and I think I would know after living right next to you for a decade, you absolute  _glutton_ —"

" _I'm_  the glutton?  _You're_  the one—"

Shawn feels it his duty, mostly out of how interested he's become in where this is going, to step in the moment Murphy and Gavaghan look like they may get violent.

"Hey! Fellas!" They both look to him and take a tiny step back from each other. "What's going on?"

Despite only having met Shawn a few days ago, Murphy is perfectly ready to tell him:

"My wife worked very hard a good few hours to cook up a meat pie—first one we've been able to have in months—and  _this_  loaf right here"—he jerks to the larger man, Gavaghan—"had to go and take it off the windowsill before I could even have a damn bite! 'Course, I didn't actually  _see_  him do it, but—"

"Exactly!" Gavaghan shouts, throwing his arms up. "This idiot didn't see me because I didn't do it! Shawn, I promise you I only steal when I really need to, like you—I'm not the type to do something petty and mean like  _this_... Here, if you don't believe me, smell my breath—"

The man opens his mouth and practically shoves it at Shawn's face, but he leans back and covers his nose in time.

"I would...  _really_  prefer not to," he says apologetically, and waits for Gavaghan to straighten up. Then he exhales in relief. "...But I'm sure we can get to the bottom of this, fellas. Now, Murph—if you didn't see him do it, you've got to have some other sort of proof. Did you look in his house?"

"Yeah, and I'm sure the reason I didn't find it was because he ate it!"

"For the last time, I did  _not_ —!"

"Calm down, Gav, you don't have to keep—"

Shawn barely has time to be in awe of these grown men's inabilities to argue correctly before he feels a hand gripping his shoulder and shoving him to the side.

"The hell's going on here?" comes the Sheriff's gravelly tones.

Carlton glances between the three of them, locking surprised gazes with the selkie for just slightly too long. What snaps him out of it is Murphy, the local shoemaker, telling him about their squabble, and about how " _Shawn here was trying to help us solve it._ "

"He  _was_  now?" Now he throws the selkie a glare charged with all the resentment he's felt in the past week, though it's admittedly very short-lasting. "Well, perhaps you've forgotten,  _Shawn_ , but this is my job. Now why don't you run along and... flatter some poor sod into giving you barmbrack, or whatever it is you do."

All previous whiplash from having Lassiter speak to him after eight days without so much as  _eye-contact_ drains from Shawn immediately, to be replaced with something entirely different. He smirks.

"That's very funny, Lassiter, because—well, that's about  _exactly_  what I've been doing today... Keeping an eye on me, are you?"

Carlton's sneer drops. And as swiftly as embarrassment flushes through him, he decides to simply  _not_  dignify any notion of a prior relationship between them but instead turn all his attention to the other men.

Meanwhile Shawn, satisfied with himself, does step aside a bit. Mostly to get a closer look at Murphy's house.

"I can prove right now I didn't do it, Lassiter," Gavaghan says in earnest. "Just—"

" _No one_  wants to smell your damn breath, mate!" Murphy shouts right back, clearly exasperated. Like they've been arguing about this in particular.

"Well, how else am I supposed to get let off the hook? If my breath doesn't smell like a shepherd's pie then I definitely didn't eat it, right?"

_Oh, Lord._  Just looking at Gavaghan's greasy face right now, the last thing Carlton wants to do is put his own closer to it. But—

"Go on, Lassie!" Shawn shouts from the edge of Murphy's house, now, holding back a laugh. "Do your job and smell the man's breath!"

...It  _is_  his job. But Carlton will be damned if he lets himself appear to take an order from  _anyone_  who isn't actually his superior.

So he hesitates several seconds before mentally and physically preparing himself another few, and then finally leans forward to get the quickest whiff of the fumes coming out of Gavaghan's maw that he  _possibly_  can. It still isn't quick enough.

"Oh—"  _Jesus in Heaven Almighty._  The corners of Carlton's eyes start to water. "It's, ah...  _some_  ungodly blend of beer, onions, and shit, but no—no... cooked meat. Not—I don't think. What all was in the pie?"

While Lassiter busies himself with his boring, technical questions, Shawn's curiosity draws him further. Specifically, around the house and into the back of the property—somehow without the owner or anyone else really noticing.

He isn't sure  _how_  he's gotten himself so curious about a mere stolen pie, but he's already here, isn't he? ...And Lassiter is here.

And if his hunch is right, then this will officially become a very fun afternoon.

 

*

 

Carlton, caught up in looking around Murphy's windowsill, forgets the selkie is even nearby until he hears him again, walking upon the scene:

"Everybody relax! I found the pie."

If only because he was inclined to ignore him, the other two men turn faster than Carlton can.

"You did?"

"I  _told_  you I didn't eat it!"

Carlton's head still swiftly follows, to see Shawn holding a dirty, broken-up pie in one arm... and a squirming cat in the other. His breath doesn't come as quickly.

"Well, I found part of it," Shawn qualifies before anyone can ask. "And I found the culprit, too—"

He struggles to keep the beast in his grasp much longer, and now that he's with everyone else, he decides with the very next claw in his arm that there's no longer a need.

"Mittens!  _You?_ " Murphy shouts, betrayed, as he watches the cat run off. "...How in the hell did she run off with the tin—?

"How in the hell did  _you_  even find it?" Carlton finally snaps at the selkie, trying to blink his way out of this dream. He's sure that he only looks dumbfounded, now, but he feels intensely enough that he has no room to be embarrassed.

Shawn slowly fixes a smirk on Lassiter as he hands the remainder of the pie to its owner, brushes his hands off, and tries to ignore the sting of the scratches that Mittens gave him.

"Well, there aren't many places a  _cat_  can hide, are there, Lassie?"

With that, Carlton is caught too far off guard to start demanding answers to everything striking him dumb— _but how could you possibly have known that a cat did it, and how did you know so_ quickly _, is it really some selkie power of yours, except it_ can't _be, and I don't care what powers you have, don't interfere with my job ever again, and_ why _are you calling me that_ —

And by the time he finds the voice for any of those questions again, the selkie has walked off beyond his line of sight. And Murphy has thanked him. And  _he's_ just been standing here, allowing himself to be made a fool of in public.

Carlton finally turns to leave without acknowledging anyone—but as he does, he notices something he didn't before. In the mud, just a few feet past Murphy's window, backwards paw prints. And what is very clearly, now... the drag of a pie tin.

Nevermind the shame he feels for not having seen it himself, he winds up walking away  _incredibly_  satisfied to know,

_Bastard just saw the damn prints and guessed! 'Mind-reading powers' my ass._

 

***

 

Shawn didn't intend it when he waited two moon cycles for his month-long stay on land, but hell if he isn't glad that his timing worked out this way. He hasn't had the chance to partake in any festival in a  _long_  time, and it's only fitting he should come back with his favorite.

He even wakes before the sun, despite having gotten his sleep on track, and shoots up from his bedding on the floor.

"Wake up, Gus! It's  _Beltane_!" he has absolutely no mercy in shouting, to Gus's visible distress.

"It isn't Beltane until sunset and the sun hasn't even  _risen_ , yet, Shawn," he grumbles into his pillow.

"True, but it's still summer, which means it's time to  _prepare_  for Beltane—and we both know that you  _will_  be upset if you miss out on getting the good flowers because all the kids got to the fields first."

Gus turns to lie on his back, and Shawn watches his friend slowly rub at his face and eyes, take a long, deep breath... and finally sit up and throw the blanket off.

"You're right. Let's go."

 

*

 

The sun begins to set, and the feast officially begins.

Carlton is the first in his home to douse the fire, which comes as a surprise to both of them. Though much moreso to Juliet, who stares at him with her mouth open until he says something.

"What?"

"You—well, nothing, I just... suppose I didn't expect you to participate. Considering how you clearly feel about, well. The Good People of the Hills."

Carlton rolls his eyes as he continues to smother every last ember. "Beltane doesn't  _revolve_  around fae, O'Hara. And I wouldn't be exempt from the rules even if it did. Sure, no one is going to come  _check_  my house to make sure my fire's out before lighting the big one, but it's just what you do, isn't it? You really think I'm going to ignore a thousand year-old tradition out of pettiness?"

It occurs to him exactly what she's going to say the moment that leaves his mouth:

"Yes, I absolutely did!" Juliet laughs and promptly crosses the kitchen to grab the jug of milk, and then starts toward the front door—

"Hey don't—I already poured some out," Carlton calls before she can get to it, "don't waste any more!"

Juliet whips around even faster that time, milk spilling ever so slightly over the spout.

" _You_  already—?"

"Is it really that much of a surprise?" he sighs, shooting upward incredulously and, quite frankly, offended.

"Well... didn't you say that you 'grew out' of myths?"

"Well,  _clearly_  I was wrong to, wasn't I?" he grumbles, moving to take the jug back from her. She laughs again when his back is turned.

"So you're doing it to keep Shawn out? What, do you think he's going to—"

"Don't be stupid, you know milk is only for wee folk... And it might come as a surprise because I'm so ' _strange_ ,' but just like everyone else, I've been doing it every damn year since I learned to speak." With the milk now put away, he faces Juliet directly: "Whether I believed in them before that jackass showed up or not—or whether I even do now, I don't take any chances. I'm only skeptical, O'Hara, I'm not  _stupid_."

She seems to ruminate on that for a short moment before shrugging in agreement, then simply moving to gather the rest of what they need before they head out.

For her, it's a decent bundle of food she's prepared to add to the town-wide feast. For him, it's his summer cloak, and his sword and sheath. And for both, though reluctantly for Carlton, some flowers to adorn their clothes and hair.

He allows a single rowan blossom in his belt. Anything more and  _surely_ , especially with all the drunks out tonight, he won't be taken as seriously as he needs to be.

Traditions or not, after all, someone still has to keep some order in this town.

 

*

 

" _Shawn!_  You can't eat that!"

"Says who?" Shawn demands through the mouthful of bread that he just plucked from a stranger's doorstep. "It's technically there for  _me_ , isn't it?"

What it was there for, in fact, was for someone to take it to the Beltane bonfire because the homeowner couldn't do it themself, due to being old or sick. But Shawn feels that he  _essentially_  did the same thing.

He hurries to swallow before Gus's disapproving expression turns to words, and he continues,

"I can't  _do_  anything with food once it becomes smoke, Gus. It's only fair that a handful or two goes directly into the local selkie's mouth..."

While Shawn looks around for other potential offerings left out, Gus sighs deeply.

"You know damn well that no one is thinking of selkies when they sacrifice food on Beltane. Or any  _other_  day, for that matter—"

"Well, you know what, maybe they should!" Shawn shouts, in about half-serious offense. "We get a little tired of nothing but fish all the time, believe it or not."

Of course, he  _is_  functionally human enough of the time to get food the same way other humans do, and all but three others in town believe him to be human, and they  _are_  on their way to a massive community feast this very second... which is enough to have it occur to Shawn, even before Gus says so,

"One of these days, some  _actual_  People of the Hills are going to come and kick your ass."

But he'll cross that bridge when he comes to it. In the meantime, it's  _Beltane_.

Empty but for mere dry grass most days, the fields that flank the inner town of An Daingean have filled with life in the past hour—a mass of tables in one long line, all covered in food and drink, and blankets with families atop them spread in a great circle from there. Farmers with their livestock at the ready. Yellow flowers spotting everything from dresses to cloaks to, like the gorse woven into Shawn's braids, nearly everyone's hair that's long enough. Just scarcely out of the ground, anymore.

And of course, in as close to the center as it gets, three large pits dug into the earth for the fires that are soon to be lit.

In his anticipation (and in the dimming light), Shawn almost doesn't notice, in the nearby crowd...

"...Poor Lassiter," he mutters, an odd smile pulling at the edges of his lips. "Not even able to have fun on Beltane—instead he has to make sure no one takes too much food and... oh, keep the drunks from pissing on people, I guess."

He watches the Sheriff yell at some fool named McDermott for another half-minute, with increasing amusement, as Gus says,

"Eh, it's the job he signed up for."

"Hm. Yeah. Hey, give me one of those." Shawn keeps his eyes forward but still accurately gestures to the bouquet of marigolds sticking out of his friend's pocket—and then, without waiting further, simply grabs one.

" _Hey_ , those are for—"

"For you to give to every eligible woman who crosses your path, like you do every year, I know. But hey—Jules is up there with Lassie," he adds with a head tilt and a smirk.

Gus's face drops. "So you're going to give one to her?"

"No, I'm saying  _you_  should. I need  _this_  one to, ah... spruce something up."

It's only been a few days since the incident with Murphy and the pie and the cat, but Shawn can still tell that Lassiter hasn't kept nearly as close a watch on him as before. Possibly due to embarrassment or, just as likely, out of spite.

Either way, Shawn feels certain that he won't be spotted as he circles around Lassiter, nor even as he approaches him from behind, and reaches upward to slowly,  _gingerly_  place the marigold in the unusually wide crevice between the man's ear and head—

Carlton, noticing Juliet's eyes flitting in alarm to the space behind him, twists around immediately.

For Shawn, it's the perfect moment.

"Trying to sneak up on me?" Carlton growls with a glint of preemptive triumph in his eye—is he finally going to have something  _solid_ on the selkie? He  _does_  look a bit shaken... "I'd like to know what the hell you had planned."

"I just came up to say hi to my favorite sheriff!" Shawn insists, trying very hard not to keep glancing to the flower behind the man's ear. "You know—wish you and Jules a Happy Beltane, invite you both to try some of Gus's delicious roasted quail—"

"You can't just welcome people to my food without asking me, Shawn!" comes Gus's indignant tone. "I worked hard on that! But—" Gus steps aside and addresses Juliet directly, "you  _can_  have some. If you'd like."

Carlton finds himself distracted with a kind of baffled frustration as Juliet actually  _giggles_  and thanks the Apothecary, and as he proceeds to pass Carlton to speak to her more—

And then he remembers the selkie and whips his head back around.

"You can't fool me, you—" He stops when his peripheral catches... a flower. Falling directly inside the collar of his shirt. "...What the hell?"

Shawn sucks in his cheeks to keep from laughing as Lassiter picks up the marigold and glances back and forth, turning around twice and even looking to the  _sky_...

"Think a bird dropped it?" he suggests, playing along and looking to the darkening sky as well.

The notion sounds much more stupid when said aloud. Carlton's face flushes hot.

"Of  _course_  not, someone probably just... threw it—?"

"Well, it's probably some kind of sign..." Shawn tells him slowly, and takes the marigold back from him, and reaches up to tuck it behind his ear again, "...that you should let yourself have more fun tonight, Lassie."

The selkie smiles and pats him on the chest, and Carlton only has time to frown and look down at where he touched him before being startled by the sudden, uproarious cheering of the rest of the town.

All at once, the twilight darkness left by the sun slipping past the horizon is replaced by the bright, warm light of the center bonfire. There is a  _boom_  of the coals erupting into flame, and then the following cheers, which are soon drowned out by the droves of cattle coming out and being led around the fire.

Now this— _this_  is the part that Shawn missed the most. Keeping his eyes on the fire, he hurries to pull all his free-hanging hair up into a knot so that he'll be ready the moment the livestock are finished.

And he's gone by the time Carlton looks over again.

 

*

 

He doesn't know why he keeps the damn flower behind his ear. He can't bring himself to believe that it's truly a "sign," nor would he  _care_  if it was...

But he supposes that it can't hurt. Even if it was the selkie who ultimately put it there.

And it's the selkie who continues to take up Carlton's attention, oddly enough, as he proceeds to jump over the smaller bonfires far more than anyone else does. Which is odd not only because for most, the fear and thrill of once or twice is enough for one year, but because... well. He most of his time in the  _water_ , doesn't he?

Even Juliet brings up that she never imagined a selkie would enjoy Beltane so much, let alone the actual, physical fire.

The truth is, Shawn has always loved the whole season—likely from the moment he could comprehend it. He loves the sun and he loves the  _liveliness_ that it inspires, not just in people and animal and fae but in the land itself. He loves the  _color_  that it brings to an island of otherwise muted greys and greens...

And his selkiehood didn't change that one bit. How could it, when it's this season that so many fish migrate? That  _pups_  are born?

The one thing it has made difficult, meanwhile, is actually being on land for the occasion. So Shawn is making up for all the chances that he's missed out on, in the past years, to make the traditional leaps over the Beltane bonfires.

He's also garnering quite a bit of attention for both his dexterity and his fearlessness. Which is always nice.

And after some time, the lack of participation from a certain sheriff grabs his own attention.

"Hey! Lassiter!" he shouts across the field without hesitation, nor shame, and gets the attention of many others in the process. "Why don't you come have a go at it?"

Carlton doesn't dignify that—partly because he wouldn't know how—until the selkie runs right up to him.

"What's even the  _point_  of Beltane if you're not going to jump over a fire?" Shawn continues, breathless. "Are you going to get in some kind of trouble if you do? Lose the position of Sheriff? I'd think if the Burgesses and the Sovereign and whoever else hated Beltane that much, they'd ban it completely—"

"To be quite honest," Carlton finds himself sighing, if only to shut him up, "I endanger myself often enough that I don't feel any need to engage in shit like this."

"So what you're saying is... you're scared."

As Shawn slowly grins, Carlton scoffs.

"I'm absolutely  _not_ —and nice try, but that kind of incentive doesn't work on me."

"What about... having fun for once in your life?"

Some chuckles from bystanders make it through the din. Suddenly very aware of the audience the selkie has managed to bring to this, Carlton scowls, and says,

"I have plenty of fun  _not_  being on fire, thanks."

"How about this—" Shawn pauses, and comes up with a deal right on the spot: "I go and do one last jump, but this time, I'll do a flip in the air before I land. And if and when I make it,  _then_  you have to do it."

_That_  raises Carlton's eyebrow, in spite of how obvious the selkie's lust for attention already is.

"Pride is a cardinal sin," he says outright, holding a serious gaze only briefly. "...But you know what? I'd like to see you try."

And before he can even stick his hand out to seal the deal, Shawn is already climbing up onto the nearest table, and shouting at the top of his lungs:

"HEY, EVERYBODY! I'M GONNA DO A  _FLIP_!"

While Gus is surely watching with a sense of exhaustion or even disappointment, and while Shawn can even feel certain that Juliet is looking on in excitement, he can't help but wonder if Lassiter is truly dreading his success. And he wonders all the way up until he takes his running start—at which all thought is further in the air than he is. It's only his muscle, and the weight of his body, and his instinct in using them.

Shawn pushes himself off the ground with a strength that often remains dormant—now is a perfectly worthy time to do so, he thinks, as he hurls his body around itself. Directly into the flames.

Unlike his other leaps, he does remain inside them long enough to feel them, now. But not enough to hurt.

He started on the opposite side because he hoped to land, dramatically, right in front of where Lassiter would be waiting. And he proceeds to do  _exactly_  that, the soles of his feet hitting dirt, arms outstretched, a flurry of screams—

_Screams?_

It takes him a second to feel it.

Shawn's goddamn hair came undone and caught fire.

Part of Carlton is sure that he  _expected_  this—he must have, as he's the first person to actually  _react_  instead of just gasp or scream—

And Shawn luckily only  _has_  to feel it and panic for that second or so before Lassiter rushes over and practically slams his own coat around Shawn's head, smothering the flames. He's knocked off balance and sent to the ground in the process, but he still feels immensely grateful as he looks up at the man now pulling the coat out from under him... and frowning deeply.

"...I still made it, you know," he says with a cough, not bothering to push himself up.

Carlton rolls his eyes and extends his arm.

"You're an idiot."

"That I am! But a deal's a deal, Sheriff."

It takes him a moment to realize what the selkie's talking (and grinning smugly) about.  _Oh, God._

He supposes now isn't the time to suddenly stop being a man of his word. No matter how petty and juvenile of a thing he's agreed to.

" _Fine,_ " he says gruffly, hauling the selkie up. "But I'm going to be the last before the fires go out."

It's only fitting, he thinks—and with which Shawn silently agrees.

This certainly is shaping up to be the most...  _eventful_  Beltane that Carlton has had.

 

***

 

The new moon graces the sky only three days later, bringing with it a reminder of  _why_  it's been so long since Shawn has done this.

Even before noticing the emptiness in the sky that night, he feels the shift. The uncomfortable turn of his stomach, and the tightening of his chest, and... the very distinct, intense desire to take his skin and run off into the sea.  _This_  is what happens when he spends the whole month—the first half is bliss, and the second is a chore.

A chore that can only be survived by having someone trustworthy to hide his skin for him. Gus has been that person for all but one or two occasions.

He was supposed to be that person  _now_ , too, but... Shawn forgot what it would be like. How entrancing the mere sight of the waves would become, how deeply the longing would take hold of him, how strong the  _scent_  of salt would even become in the air and how  _physically_  he would be drawn...

He forgets until he finds himself standing inside Gus's cupboard and clutching the sealskin that hangs there.

And he does quickly manage to snap himself out of it, but it's still a dreadful realization. Shawn's mind immediately, and without his permission, goes through all the possible nooks and crannies that Gus might hide his skin after this incident. He's known him too long—his friend is just too predictable.

Now that he's remembering, the urge to abandon his humanity only becomes harder to resist from here, too. Today is likely his only chance to exert enough self-control to rectify this.

Funny that it's still an impulse that brings him to it.

 

*

 

He doesn't register that he's opened his door to the selkie as quickly as he registers the bundle that is shoved directly into his chest.

"What in the—?"

"I need you to hold onto this for me," Shawn says as quickly as he can without losing too much breath. He's struggling to regain it after running all the way here. "Please."

The selkie continues to push it forward until Carlton has no choice but to take it, and to look down—and it's only then that he understands. Except now there are more things for him to  _not_  understand.

"But you—" It takes him a moment to find the words when he is holding something so incomprehensible in his hands, when he's hardly spoken civilly with this man at all—"You hardly know me, why on earth would you... why should  _I_  do this for you?"

As though Carlton didn't  _gladly_  take the pelt within minutes of first meeting him. But he'd prefer not to think about actually, somehow, being  _trusted_  by the selkie.

Shawn looks in the man's narrowed eyes and hesitates. And feels a little ridiculous for doing so.

"Well... keeping townsfolk safe is sort of your job, isn't it?"

That, it is. A reminder of which is staring him right in the face—the selkie could easily have lost more than a few inches of hair on Beltane had he not intervened so quickly. Still, Carlton finds himself hesitating as well.

When he doesn't respond, Shawn continues: "You could put your cousin in charge of it, I'm sure she'd do it—I just need it to be hidden someplace I can't predict. So, as long as you don't just leave it out on a chair like you did last time..."

"And what makes you so sure that I'll give it back to you?"  _What the hell makes him confident I wouldn't willingly damn him to stay human?_

At that, Shawn looks and feels less than anxious for the first time since he knocked.

"We both know that otherwise I'll never leave your town," he says with a laugh.

Carlton locks eyes with him. And then looks down at the folded-up sealskin again. And quickly snaps his head back up.

"Don't be expecting any more favors from me after this. You set yourself on fire again, it's  _your_  problem."

Lassiter doesn't give him any room to respond, with gratitude or otherwise, before stepping back into his house and shutting the door in his face. With all the gratitude Shawn  _does_  feel, and with all the other things on his mind, he has half a mind to knock again—

But then it occurs to him that adding any sort of " _sorry about your wife_ " comment, no matter how sincere, might not be a great idea.

He supposes it's for the best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes on how Gus and Juliet’s names fit into the time period, since I imagine the questions arising:
> 
> -Both ‘Burton’ and ‘Guster’ as a given name and surname, respectively, have pretty recent origins. BUT! ‘Gus’ on its own actually has Old Irish origins, meaning ‘strong choice.’ Which I think is very fitting.  
> -Juliet as a given name so far away from Italy would probably have been unheard of before the first iteration of Romeo & Juliet was published in 1562. But after that point it DID get a surge in popularity, which is historically convenient for me.
> 
> And some notes on Beltane and fae:
> 
> -La Bealtaine or the anglicization, Beltane, or May Day, is a gaelic summer festival dating back to pre-Christian Ireland. There isn’t much available information on exactly how it would have been celebrated the late 16th century, but I can say for sure that the strong presence of Christianity did absolutely nothing to stop the Irish from celebrating it, even as a holiday so grounded in druid and fae-related customs.  
> -It was considered bad luck and disrespectful to actually call faeries by that name for a long time. Instead they would be referred to as The Good People of the Hills, or just Good People, or in Irish the Aos sí.   
> -Yellow flowers are very significant in Beltane, as they’re supposed to summon fire. And the ones that are mentioned specifically - Shawn is wearing Gorse, which is extremely flammable. And marigolds are generally given as gifts between lovers. :)


	5. Bright

A piece of Carlton simply cannot believe that he didn't care to examine the sealskin more closely those ten weeks ago.

Christ.  _Only ten weeks?_  Time is truly beginning to escape him.

But even if he couldn't have been expected to entertain the notion of selkies then... that he could have had so little interest in this pelt seems  _insane_  to him now. Did something about it change in that time? Surely there must have―he doesn't remember it being quite like this. He doesn't remember the edges being so jagged. He doesn't remember the seal's head being in one, uniform shape.

He  _can_  imagine why those things might be different―even if the mechanics are a mystery to him, the selkie surely isn't going to take his skin off the same way every time... But he still believes that there must be something more to it. Has it gained a faint glow? Or gotten heavier, or lighter, or...

_Something_  keeps Carlton unable to tear himself away for a long time. Perhaps having no other sign of life in his home but the crackling fire has something to do with it.

Perhaps it's also wrapping his mind around the fact that,  _this thing somehow allows a man to transform into a seal._

Or perhaps it simply is that he's aware of its properties, now. That the selkie is undoubtedly more than a petty thief in his eyes after all these weeks, as much as Carlton would prefer to say otherwise.

He remembers thoughtlessly hauling the sealskin over his shoulder and bringing it home, that night, before the selkie showed up to do his work. He remembers showing it to Victoria and feeling very pleased with himself, though not much more than any other good work day. And... it hasn't occurred to him until now, because  _why would it_ , but―

He remembers Victoria accusing him of being obsessed but, funnily enough... expressing far more interest in the sealskin itself than he did, that night.

He immediately shudders and squeezes his eyes shut, along with his fist around the skin.

It's been a good week or two since the last time that Victoria's absence has struck him so sharply―so  _viscerally_ , as opposed to the dull ache that he's almost become accustomed to. Since he has let himself think of her having  _left_  rather than her simply being gone. It has been twice as long, meanwhile, since the anger that accompanied it has not been toward the selkie.

Whether that has anything to do with what he holds in his hands now, Carlton can't even bring himself to care. Because a determined sort of rage has abruptly flared up inside of him.

_Why even bother being kind to me, that night?_  he wonders―he mentally  _demands_ , loudly and repeatedly, until he finds the unfinished letter that he stowed away. And then he immortalizes it in ink.

The sealskin hangs unceremoniously on the back of his chair as he furiously writes all the questions that have been  _desperate_ to claw themselves past Carlton's inhibitions and out of his chest. To put themselves on a page and to make it across the sea to Victoria, and to retrieve some goddamn  _answers_.

 

_Why did you try to calm me down on the night you left?_

_Why did you try to keep me from obsessing over the selkie ―_

 

God dammit―he doesn't realize until he's already written it. He drops ink over the word until it's obscured entirely.

 

_Why did you try to keep me from obsessing over the thief?_

_Why did it MATTER to you?_

_Why even BOTHER if you were going to leave? What difference did it make to you?_

_Tell me, Victoria, what kind of cruel trick you were playing. Please._

 

Carlton marks that final period so sharply that it stabs a small hole through the paper.

And, for much longer than he realizes, he simply stares at it.

He could very well add his name at the bottom and it would be a complete letter, he thinks. He could fold it up right now and fold an envelope around it and seal it and take it directly to the docks before darkness falls entirely, and he could likely expect a new letter in response very soon―

And it very quickly occurs to him, with far more distinction than he's had at all lately, that he isn't sure if he actually  _wants_  a response. That the notion of hearing the first words from Victoria in months...

He won't say that it terrifies him, not even in the privacy of his own mind. But Carlton does know, on some level, that sending this letter makes it all real.

That he will be  _admitting_  that she left him. That she will subsequently  _win_.

As abruptly and almost thoughtlessly as he followed the impulse to revisit the letter, he takes what he's written and balls it up in both fists, then sends it flying into the fireplace with impeccable aim. It bounces off the brick before catching fire and knocks some embers out, which fizzle out into nothingness on the dirt floor.

He very nearly decides to do the same with Victoria's original letter, but rationality catches him in time. Instead, it's folded back up and safely returned to its hiding spot.

Carlton rakes his fingers through his hair and walks to the window. He doesn't see Juliet, but judging by the sky she will surely be on her way home soon. He looks back to the sealskin, still hanging from his chair, and very quickly decides that that will have to stay hidden from her, too.

It's just as quickly, and resignedly, that he thinks of the only logical place to keep it.

 

*

 

Precisely a fortnight from then, Carlton arrives at the apothecary's door first thing in the morning. So he doesn't know why he feels surprised when it's the Apothecary and not the selkie who answers it―

Though the man looks far more confused to see  _him_.

"Can I... help you, Sheriff?"

"Well, you can let your selkie friend know that _I_  am officially done helping him," he says a bit awkwardly, and glances around to make sure that no neighbors will see him retrieve the sealskin―

"What's Lassie doing here?" comes Shawn's voice, loud and choked from sleep, from further in the house.

Carlton then unthinkingly walks past the Apothecary and past his workspace and into his home, until he sees where the selkie lies on the floor... splayed on a makeshift bed in a way that almost feels too intimate for him to see. Hair fanning out around him. Clearly making no attempt to even wake up properly, let alone stand up and come speak to him himself.

"Is today not the full moon? Did I miscount?" It's more of a challenge than a question. He feels certain that he didn't.

"What―? Oh," Shawn realizes groggily, blinking the crust out of his eyes and finding Lassiter standing above him. Startled by the sight, he lets out a small laugh. "Well... technically, it isn't the full moon until you can  _see_  the moon, so... Regardless, I think I'd like to wait until the evening to leave, you know. Maybe you were hoping I would, but Gus would be disappointed if I jumped back into the ocean so soon."

"I wasn't―" Carlton stops himself and briefly knits his eyebrows together, then shakes his head. "Nevermind. I'll come back later, since you're clearly...  _indisposed_ ―but that'll be it. Don't expect me to change any more of my schedule for you!"

Not that anything else has yet begged his attention this morning. Nor that Carlton doesn't expect either of the other men to know that.

He once again wordlessly passes the Apothecary nonetheless. It does vaguely occur to him on his way out that he's been rude, but he's already made himself appear to be in a rush so there's no time to rectify it―

But he still does hear the selkie shout, before he shuts the door behind him,

"Just meet me at the shore around sunset!"

 

*

 

Carlton hates that he actually  _takes_  that order. But he rationalizes it with how long he has spent carrying this thing around and that he is  _eager_  to be rid of it and complete this favor, so he may as well go precisely when the selkie intends to leave town.

What happens is that he sets off for the shore―the same shore that the selkie arrived upon, as he can only assume―a decent half-hour before the sun actually sets. It takes him less than half that time to make it there, and then... he's waiting there, alone.

This morning was the first time he and the selkie had actually spoken since he took the skin for him. There were no further conversations, no further thank-yous in return for such a favor nor questions on his part... but merely silence. It's been odd, carrying such a heavy burden on the selkie's behalf and yet hardly seeing him around.

Though he supposes that makes sense. The selkie wouldn't have wanted to risk having the impulse to... follow Carlton home and ransack it for the skin. Or something like that.

The oddest thing is how dangerously easy it has been to forget about it  _entirely_ , throughout any given day, until he prepared for bed on any given evening.

Almost as though it's simply... become part of his life.

" _Not anymore,_ " he makes a point of muttering to himself. And he lets out a mirthless chuckle as he mindlessly kicks around some sand. "It was just two stupid weeks, and now it's over."

Just when Carlton starts to suppose that he might have assumed wrong about  _which shore_ , he catches the selkie climbing down the rocks to this pocket of a beach. Something turns in his stomach. He ignores it and makes a point of thinking the word:  _Finally._

Meanwhile, as Shawn gets down the last bit of sliding stone and sand, and as he gives Lassiter a hearty wave, he sees the man shrug off his coat―

―and then pull the sealskin out from inside it.

"The sun has  _been_  set for some time, you know―"

"You've been  _wearing_  it?" Shawn interrupts, now glancing in awe between Lassiter's coat lying on a rock and his skin in the man's hands. His face grows hot and the corners of his mouth twitch furiously. In spite of that, he approaches slowly, his feet making almost no indents in the sand.

"Well―yes?" Carlton frowns, mostly distracted, now, by the look on the selkie's face. "It made the most sense to keep it on my own back, where I would always know exactly where it was... Why? Is that bad?"

"No," Shawn laughs in a sharp breath. "It's just―" He reaches out for his skin, and continues to look back-and-forth between it and Lassiter, until deciding to tell him, "It was a good idea. Explains the weird feeling I've been getting, though..."

Almost immediately after taking it, Shawn sets his skin on the ground by his feet. His hands are then on the bottom hem of his shirt and pulling it over his head, while Carlton frowns even deeper and asks,

"Feeling? What feeling?"

"Oh, you know." He sighs and folds the shirt up into a crude square, before handing it to Lassiter and starting on his trousers. "I mean―it would be hard to explain. It's―"

Carlton doesn't register the selkie's growing nakedness until the trousers are halfway to the ground, at which he lets out an involuntary noise of surprise and snaps his gaze toward the sky.

Shawn grins, utterly shameless. "It's a selkie thing. I don't think you'd understand."

"I don't appreciate being condescended to," Carlton growls, still refusing to look in his direction.

" _Well_..."

Until his peripheral catches the sealskin being pulled over the selkie's waist, and he hears yet another amused sigh. Then his curiosity gets the better of him.

And on Shawn's end, seeing that waning scowl in the dim seaside twilight... feels like just the  _perfect_  time to tell him,

"You know these skins are attached to our souls, right?"

Without so much as another breath, Shawn pulls the seal's head over his human one, and he takes a running leap into the water. For all the proof that Carlton has seen of his selkiehood, he still finds himself thinking that  _a dive like that would have hurt him, surely he's knocked himself unconscious and he'll be taken by those waves_ ―

And he starts forward with a panic, only to watch those tanned legs go under the water and a seal's tail immediately splash back up.

And then the selkie is gone. And Carlton is once again tasked with returning his clothes.

 

***

 

It's supposed to be over. And it does seem that way, for a few days. An Daingean is noticeably quieter and the townsfolk stop asking after Shawn's absence very quickly. The Apothecary reverts back to his old, less social habits. Carlton doesn't even notice him leave his home to visit the shore.

He isn't watching the Apothecary on purpose anymore. He doesn't have any reason to care about his or his selkie friend's habits―he doesn't  _need_  for it to feel cemented in his mind that the selkie is in fact gone for good...

But he simply cannot help but check. He finds himself standing with the apothecary in his line of sight each day, at the same time. Like clockwork.

And for four days in a row, nothing.

...The  _fifth_  day, however.

Carlton does not― _could_  not―ask the Apothecary to make sure, nor does he follow him, but it's clear: The time that he left his home. The direction he left in. The amount of time he spent gone.

A strange feeling washes over him as Carlton realizes that this is not, in fact, over. Part of him feels a little stupid for thinking that the selkie would just leave altogether, but otherwise... He wishes that he could tell himself that what he is feeling is annoyance, or anger, or dread, or... or  _something_  that would subsequently make him feel confident in his future.

But he can tell himself  _nothing_ , as the moment he feels it, he aggressively refuses to put an ounce of thought toward it.

What he does instead is go throughout the rest of his day with an increasingly uncomfortable ball of inertia in the pit of his stomach, contained and festering and  _desperate_  but with nowhere in particular to drive him, finding no way to ignore it nor properly satisfy it―

Until he sees Juliet later that evening, and a question falls off his tongue entirely of its own doing.

"What all do you know about selkies, O'Hara?"

She herself hasn't brought up Shawn to him at all in the past five days. So the shock on her face is perfectly appropriate.

It is, however, brief, and it quickly turns into thoughtfulness as he continues to stare at her.

"Well... there are a lot of conflicting legends," she finally says with a sigh, the curiosity gone from her face. "Especially between our two nations―Ireland and Scotland, you know... As far as I've been told, us Scots at least have been talking about them for a thousand years or more, and the ideas split up a lot in all that time. For example―my mother has _always_  been adamant that selkies are their own type of creature who started out as seals and became people after, but then many of my old friends would argue that they actually must be humans whose families were cursed somewhere down the line. And... 'course, my uncles and grandparents believed they were angels who'd fallen into the sea. I'm not so sure what I think, now that I've met one..."

"You didn't ask him?" he finds himself asking, and even taken physically aback. "What the hell were you talking to him all month about, then?"

"I mean―I thought it might have been a bit  _rude_  to outright ask him about the origin of his species, you know?" Juliet gestures outward defensively and wildly, and then sighs again. Likely at his tactlessness. "I stuck to smaller things. Like if all seals were selkies, or if humans could become selkies. Which are a  _no_  and  _no_ , by the way... And then confirmation on other legends. He does agree on the bit about how they're all supposed to be beautiful―"

"Of course he does."

"―and that they can heal injuries, even on humans. And, I didn't ask about this either, but  _everyone_  knows the legend that the women make 'great wives'―except  _great_  only means 'quiet' and 'subservient' so I can't say I've ever been a fan of the notion... And then the  _men_  aren't spoken about as much, but when they are, it's that they'll find women who are in unhappy marriages and love them properly."

For a good few seconds, then, Juliet looks wistfully out the window. Carlton gets the feeling that she's fantasized about that once or twice.

Then she seems to shake herself out of it once she notices him staring, and abruptly asks,

"So why are  _you_  curious all of a sudden?"

He doesn't think he'd tell her the full truth if he even knew it.

"...I supposed that I may very well have to deal with the selkie more in the future," is what he says, casual as he can as he moves through the house to mask the flush in his face. "So I'd like to learn about his tricks on my own time."

 

*

 

If the Sheriff were caught asking around town for books on Celtic history, let alone Celtic  _myth_ , he might as well kiss his position goodbye. He might even expect some kind of public lashing from an English officer.

No one can stop stories from being verbally exchanged, of course. Even less than anyone can stop the Irish as a whole from steadfastly remaining Catholic. But as an individual, he isn't too far under the crown's nose. It would be... at the very least,  _unbecoming_  of him.

So he nudges Juliet in the direction of doing it for him.

And within the next day, unsurprisingly, she drops into his lap a single book―thick, sturdily bound, and yellowed from age. On the inside, it's clear the ink has been traced over, and even if not for that, the Irish seems a bit antiquated. Likely more than one hundred years have passed since its original binding.

"...Dare I ask whom you got this from?" he says in awe, still examining the thing.

"A very weird, old man called  _Strode_ ," she tells him, sounding a bit shaken. "Have you heard of him?"

"Yes, he moved to town a few years ago. Why?"

"Well, he seemed nice enough, but... in return for borrowing the book, he wanted a lock of my hair."

"...Your hair."

"And not even enough to make a wig with, so...  _please_  be careful and hurry with it, Carlton―I don't take those sort of trades lightly and I do  _not_  want some old man to put a curse on me or have... any kind of magical control over me."

He has no reason to doubt that that's possible, now, so he promises that he will be. He wouldn't be any less than careful with such an old, delicate thing anyway.

In his free time for the next couple days or so (and he  _creates_  more free time, going home earlier and staying awake later), Carlton peruses the myths in that book. Selkies take up a decent portion of it, he finds. But the information itself doesn't seem to cover much more than what Juliet already told him.

One thing, in fact, is just flat-out untrue:  _A sylchie may only transform into a human one night out of the year, usually midsummer. Otherwise she will remain in that form._  Of which Carlton has seen outright conflicting proof.

In that case, can he trust  _any_  of this to be true?

But can he trust it any less than his own memories and stories of what selkies are supposed to be, either?

He remembers his mother telling him, before putting him to bed as a child, about evil creatures known as selkies. That they were sea-demons who would seduce you and drag you to the bottom of the ocean to drown. Who only looked beautiful on land, and who became uglier and more monstrous the further out to sea you went.

He also remembers his mother ceasing with those stories entirely around the time he was eight years old. Presumably because they were no longer needed to keep him from swimming out too far―because he could fully understand, then, the dangers of the ocean.

Or at least he thought so, up until recently.

What he doesn't remember ever hearing―nor does he find anywhere in this book, either―is any mention of the properties of a selkie's skin. Or what happens when a human wears it.

Only what happens when a human  _keeps_  it. That is, they have control over the selkie―they can hurt the selkie irreparably by damaging the skin, they can force the selkie to live with them and marry them...

Carlton supposes, with that, that it makes sense if what Shawn said about his soul being attached to the skin is true.

But what a whole new Pandora's box  _that_  opens about the very nature of souls to begin with. And whether selkies and other fae truly are demons, or otherwise fallen angels, or if they operate under a different Creator altogether... which Carlton cannot say he has any sure feelings about.

But he still, with a sudden desperation unmatched by any prior curiosity, needs so badly to  _know_.

It's because of the sealskin, he's sure. He knows it is, as he keeps coming back to dwell on it even and  _especially_  when he doesn't want to.

It at least remains between himself and the book, as he still hasn't breathed a word about it to Juliet. Nor does he feel any desire to―to hear her likely scandalized response that he was doing such a  _favor_  for the selkie for all that time, that he 'got over' his distrust of fae, that there is clearly so much more to his recent curiosity...

And it weighs on him. Far more than he'd like to admit to himself, and in fact  _so_  much that it cannot be ignored.

So much that the only way Carlton can think to alleviate it, after days of that desperation burning inside of him, is to return to the shore at which he saw the selkie off.

 

***

 

Regardless of all the mental deliberation it took to allow himself to come here, this quickly feels like a bad idea.

Not because he has any reason to fear being caught by Juliet, or even by the Apothecary―no, he made  _damn_  sure to wait until past his usual visiting time. Even with the visits being spaced out instead of every single day, lately, the schedule is still predictable.

Not even all that much because of what certain townsfolk may get up to in his absence, oddly enough.

No, this just feels... too much unlike himself. Like he has pushed too far past his own walls, and now he has no idea where he is.  _Rationally_ , of course he does―he is sitting on a rock at a beach outside of An Daingean, which he reached by climbing down a small cliffside, where he has been twice before...

But, by God,  _what_  is he doing here?

Sitting.

Watching.

Waiting.

_For what,_  he wants to ask himself, but he knows precisely what he is waiting for―and that the question would be  _for whom_. He just hates that he's doing this.

Carlton is almost beginning to hate it  _enough_  to get up and leave... when  _he_  arrives.

"Hoping to see me?"

Which he does by pouncing up out of the water and directly onto the rock without warning.

Shawn grins as he watches Lassiter jump and briefly clutch at his chest―it's funny in a way that almost overshadows the sheer excitement he felt upon noticing the man out here. His cheeks won't relax until Lassiter averts his gaze, covers his peripheral with his hand, and says,

"Not like _that_ , I wasn't. Could you at least wrap the pelt around your waist?  _Please?_ "

As uncomfortable with nakedness as the Sheriff clearly is (and as amused as Shawn is by it), this is the first time he's actually said something about it instead of just being awkward. So Shawn smirks and does as he asks.

"Were you expecting me to somehow be clothed?" he laughs.

"Obviously not," Carlton grumbles, then scowls as he faces him. "But... quite frankly, I expected you to look like a seal. I thought you could only transform on a full moon?"

Though it now makes much more sense that the Apothecary was visiting him every day for a month. He almost feels stupid for asking, but―

"Oh, I can transform whenever I want." Shawn shrugs casually. "Just not for very long at once, and... you know. Need to be back before moonset."

"Then why aren't you human all the time?"

Shawn rolls his eyes. "Because I don't  _want_  to be―keep up, won't you, Lassie? You see―"

"There's that thing again―!" Carlton interrupts, because he _finally_  has the chance to, "―what you just called me... Why are you saying that?"

He pauses for an answer, but Shawn merely frowns back at him. So he clarifies:

"...You must know I'm not a woman, least of all a young one."

"Well don't sell yourself too short!" Shawn grins and adds, when that isn't well-received, "Oh, come on. It's a nickname. Based off your name, you know?"

He narrows his eyes. "My name is Carlton."

"And your surname is Lassiter.  _Which_  everyone but your cousin calls you almost exclusively, don't they?"

"...Well, yes―"

"Then there you go. Lassiter, Lassie. I think it's cute."

He scowls again, unsure whether he's more annoyed or baffled. " _I'm_  not cute."

"Whatever you say."

The selkie says nothing more than that as he leans forward, propping himself up on one arm, and smiling in a way that makes Carlton's brow relax and his throat tighten. The silence is brief, but maddening.

He breaks it with a cough, quickly straightening himself up and asking,

"So― _why_ , then, do you not want to be human all the time, or at least  _more_  of the time? Why only come on land on the full moon?―I don't understand," he admits, somehow shameless in that.

Shawn raises his brow and lies back on the rock to think, for that  _is_  a very good question.

"Well. First of all, it's very  _fun_  to be a seal," he says after a moment. "When you're a... human person, you have to make an effort to behave a certain way―to not be mean, or rude, or to say the wrong thing, or step the wrong way... But when you're a seal, not only do you have to worry about  _none_  of that, but you have no responsibilities!"

His hands are no longer weighing his sealskin down over his legs, but gesturing out and up in the air. And nearly hitting a wary Carlton in the face.

"You don't have to worry about shelter because your fur keeps you warm enough and your fat makes the hardest rock  _perfectly_  comfortable―not so much right now―and you don't have to worry about food because there's fish and birds everywhere, and  _best of all_... you get to have cute little whiskers!" He beams up at Lassiter, who seems unable to hide the slightest amusement now. "Don't tell me you've never wished you could have whiskers, Lassie."

"I―" He finds himself  _actually_  thinking about that, and then shakes his head, not wanting to get distracted. "I certainly haven't past the age of  _six_."

"So you admit you  _have_  thought about it before―"

"That doesn't matter," Carlton snaps, anxious to actually understand this. "What about... sharks and whales? And humans who hunt seals? Isn't that...  _terrifying_? Or a problem, at the least?"

"Oh, definitely," Shawn doesn't hesitate to tell him. "The ocean is a scary place. But so is being on land―with all the wars, and famine, and diseases, and people who would kill me not even for being a seal, but for other reasons entirely! And even if there  _wasn't_  any of that, Lassie..."

Shawn takes a deep breath and rolls his head over, still on the rock, to meet the other man's gaze.

"It would only make sense that you don't get it, because you're not a selkie, but  _as_  one... it's very hard to  _want_  to be in human form most of the time. It's not just  _not wanting to_. You... don't have the will. Something about the full moon―the way it pulls the tides, probably―makes it a thousand times easier to hold onto personhood, and to not be itching to jump back in the water. On regular days, it's easiest to stay like this at low tide."

As he finishes, a weight is lifted from Shawn's chest that he didn't quite know was there. He supposes, now, that it does make a bit of sense that he felt compelled to explain himself. That is, for the same reason he came here to talk with the Sheriff in the first place.

How often does he manage to get someone so strict and hard as  _this_  man to cave into his curiosity, anyway?

Carlton, meanwhile, turns to watch the waves. And, after a few moments, turns back with a frown.

"It's past low tide, isn't it?"

"...I have an easier time at the battles-of-will than most selkies," Shawn shrugs, ironically beginning to feel that will running out.

"And why's that?"

In restraining himself from glancing at the water, Shawn pauses a second. Then he smiles, and tells him,

"Guess."

"...Guess?"

"Yeah, I want you to guess!" When Lassiter only continues to stare back at him, Shawn rolls his eyes and sits up. "Come on, I know you're a smart man. You wouldn't be Sheriff if you didn't have a knack for solving problems, would you?"

"...Well, I―"  _I'm not a child, I don't like playing guessing games,_  is what Carlton would say, if the selkie didn't interrupt him again by sighing very loudly.

"If this is going to take some time, I'll leave you to it."

Carlton has no time to protest before Shawn is once again shrouded in his sealskin, and as he adds, just before unceremoniously sliding back into the water,

"No hints, Lassie!"

Then, for the third time now, Carlton is left helplessly watching an empty ocean.

 

*

 

The selkie's little game, or puzzle, or riddle, or  _whatever_  it is... sticks with Carlton to a troubling degree.

It isn't that he intends to forget about it entirely, but by Christ, he should not be so distracted by  _any_  thoughts that he is delayed in responding to a  _fight_  breaking out nearby... Especially not by thoughts about that selkie.

After the fight is properly dealt with, and even very far into the next day, he is filled with a deep shame by both his actions and mere thoughts. At the same time, he cannot stop his mind from wandering when he is not otherwise occupied, and especially not when he is in a task so mundane as eating his dinner.

He shouldn't be surprised that Juliet notices. How could she not, when she attempts conversation and he doesn't seem to hear her?

He is, however, very  _rightfully_  surprised that after she snaps him out of it, she asks,

"Does this have anything to do with you going down to the shore to see Shawn yesterday?"

His spoon immediately falls out of his hand and into his bowl with an echoing  _clink_ , and Carlton can suddenly do nothing but listen to his own heartbeat and stare back at Juliet. For several seconds, neither of them speak a word, and every little crackle of fire and rustle of grass outside and  _especially_  his own heartbeat become slowly louder and louder.

He realizes that he still has a mouthful of stew, and swallows it.

"...You knew and you didn't mention it before?"

She shrugs. "I didn't suppose it was any of my business."

"Then what makes it your business now?" he snaps, but quickly realizes how much more suspicious that makes his actions seem. So before Juliet can respond he sighs, and says, "I presume you saw me walk down there?"

She gives him a sheepish look and nods.

In retrospect, he didn't exactly make an effort not to be noticed as he left town. He sighs again.

"Then if you must know, yes. The selkie gave me... a bit to think about. And before you ask,  _no_ , I am not going to give you any details of our conversation."

"Are you sure? Maybe I could help."

_You probably could,_  Carlton thinks, which is why he then tells her, "I don't need your help, O'Hara."

"What about the book? Has that helped?"

"Not yet," is what he says, so Juliet won't think that she gave an old man her hair for nothing, but he truly doesn't believe it will. There is almost nothing at all written about the lives of selkies outside of their interaction with humans, which―

Wait.

_Oh, God damn it._

He feels stupid.

 

*

 

"You're only half-selkie, aren't you?"

Shawn isn't even finished hauling himself up onto the rock, let alone pulling his skin over his waist, when he hears it. And he doesn't quite register what Lassiter even said until he sits down.

And then he laughs. "Wasn't so hard, was it?"

Carlton frowns, but he doesn't have room to be annoyed by that for more than a short moment before asking what he has been  _anxious_  to know since he realized―

"So one of your parents is human. And they live in An Daingean, don't they? Would I know them?"

Just then, Shawn stills with a fleeting moment of panic. God, he  _should_  have expected a question like that, shouldn't he?

"For your sake, I hope not," he says quickly, averting his gaze and laughing again. But it's different this time.

For once he actually seems... regretful. Like that's something he would rather not talk about―and for  _once_ , for all his burning curiosity, Carlton can respect that. So he tries for something a little less personal:

"How old are you?"

"Oh―" Shawn looks significantly relieved. "Um... something like late-twenties. However old Gus is. I don't really keep count... Why, did you think I was  _centuries old_  or something?" The look on Lassiter's face tells him that he  _definitely_  did. Shawn grins. "Funny, I didn't think I looked it!"

"You certainly don't act it, either," Carlton grumbles.

"Hm. Fair. But no, I'm... pretty sure we can't even live that long. We age the same as humans. Except actually a little better, since we can heal ourselves..."

Carlton remembers Juliet mentioning that. But he also does  _not_  remember ever hearing or reading that anywhere else, which reminds him to ask,

"What exactly sort of creature  _is_  a selkie?"

"A seal creature," Shawn somehow manages to tell him with a straight face.

"No, I mean―" He sees Shawn's grin return, but that doesn't deter him from making himself clear. "Are you... fae? Sorcerers? I suppose by  _definition_  you're shapeshifters but all shapeshifters have some specific purpose, do they not? To... to disguise, to hunt, to seduce―"

"Do you  _feel_  like I'm seducing you?" Shawn asks, leaning forward, and increasinglyamused with the flustered look that he gets in response.

"I didn't―" Carlton blanches and turns his gaze to the sea. "I didn't necessarily say you did  _that_. But... being a seal most of the time has to serve  _some_  purpose."

"Sure." He shrugs again. "Fun and freedom."

Carlton turns his gaze back. "That can't possibly be all of it."

He sounds oddly confident of that, Shawn thinks. He pauses to scrutinize him.

"...Then why don't you ask me what you  _really_  want to ask me, Lassie."

Carlton can tell that that's not a question. That the selkie likely already knows exactly what is on his mind. And with that, he cannot help that his heart jumps and his throat grows dry.

But he refuses to break eye contact, this time.

"Are you evil?"

"HA!" Shawn's all but bored expression splits immediately into a laugh that startles the both of them. Lassiter even jumps back just slightly. "Well, that's a loaded question, isn't it? I mean... first of all, you have to ask yourself, how do I  _define_  'good' and 'evil―'"

"Pretty simply," Carlton says dryly.

"Ah, right―you're a Catholic," Shawn remembers with a sigh, and with an unwitting glance upward to Heaven. "I guess by those standards, I might be, since I must say I don't live by many rules of God, either as a human  _or_  a seal―"

"I'm not asking about Catholic standards. I'm asking about  _Celtic_  standards," he interrupts again, more fiercely this time. And he meets Shawn's eyes with even less distance between them. With more conviction in his stare. " _Are_  you a demon?"

"...I think I could ask you the same question. You  _are_  very pale... Anyone ever accuse you of being a blood-drinker? Undead, maybe?"

Carlton has, in fact, heard that before. But what he scowls at is far moreso how non-seriously the selkie is regarding his question.

Meanwhile Shawn has truly never had anyone make any such accusations of evil toward  _him_.

"Where did you even get an idea like that?" he has to laugh. "...What, from that old book?"

Carlton's eyes widen in a sort of fear as he looks down to the bag at his hip, and back up.

"... _How_  did you know about the book?"

"With my evil  _demon_  powers." He holds his expression for less than a second before breaking and rolling his eyes. "Lassie, I'm kidding. I can see the corner sticking out of the bag. Mind letting me see it?"

Carlton forgot how observant the selkie could be. The reminder makes it a bit difficult to feel relieved, or less wary.

He frankly didn't imagine that he'd even be literate (as that makes him one of a very small handful in An Daingean who are), but he ultimately does pull the book out. With, of course, the grumbled warning to be  _extremely_  careful.

"What was that?" Shawn says immediately, pretending to nearly drop the book into the water.

" _You―_ "

Shawn catches it at the last second, grinning up at Lassiter's mixed rage and shock. The man's breathing is labored for a minute, but he remains otherwise silent while Shawn flips to the bookmarked pages.

"...Now, maybe my reading comprehension is a little rusty after all these years," he eventually says, after pointing out many wrong things about the text, "but I can't find a damn thing in here about selkies being evil."

"I never said I got the idea from the book," Carlton huffs. The moment Shawn closes it, he yanks it back and returns it to safety. "I... heard it growing up."

"Well, did you consider that maybe selkies are like humans in that we can be good or bad or anything else?"

" _Are_  you?"

"You sure are full of questions." Lassiter glares when he says that. Shawn lies down on the rock again and thinks for a moment. "...I don't know. Probably. I mean, I don't  _think_  we're supposed to be evil―when we're seals we do what seals do, and when we're people, we... do whatever."

"All the legends say that when you're people, you make wives and husbands out of lonely humans, and then abandon them later," Carlton practically recites, voice low.. Then he narrows his eyes very seriously down at the selkie. "...Have you done that?"

Shawn laughs again. "Me? Get married? Don't insult me, Lassie. Like I could tie myself down..."

He expects, when he's done saying that, to hear some rebuttal about marriage. Or some other hissed words, or demands of his history of seducing humans.

But there's just silence, for a while.

 

*

 

God, Shawn had thought that  _Juliet's_  curiosity was a lot.

He also thought it was cute. Particularly in that she seemed to be worried about her questions coming off as too aggressive or prying. Lassiter, however... has no such filter. In a way it's charming, but it's also...

_Intense_ , Shawn supposes. And it actually is a little aggressive, and the man certainly _is_  prying very deep... and yet Shawn finds himself willingly answering whatever Lassie brings him, for no reason that he can definitively tell himself. But then, does everything  _need_  a reason?

"Look, I really don't  _know_  exactly what the deal is―if one guy was cursed a thousand years ago and spread his cursed seed everywhere, or if we're 'fallen angels' or just sea monsters with pretty faces... I at least am  _pretty_  sure that we can't turn humans by biting them or anything. I've tried. But... all I know is that my mother was a selkie, and that my father took her skin and hid it when they got married―typical selkie legend, you know―and I didn't know about  _any_  of it until I was about sixteen and my mother found the skin again.

"Though it―it  _did_  make a lot of sense in hindsight...," he mutters, mostly to himself, then. "My father never wanted me swimming if he wasn't watching, and he kept me from ' _indulging in myth_ '―ugh―even as a little kid...  _But_ , of course, once I watched my mother take her skin and jump right into the ocean―"

Carlton lets out a sharp noise, at that, being reminded of his first night knowing him.

"Like mother, like son, huh?"

Shawn cheeks a smirk and hums in response. "Yeah. Sorry about that. Anyway... my father had no other choice but to explain everything after that. What my mother was, that she would be stuck in seal form permanently, now―and he didn't have to tell me for me to figure  _I_  had to be a selkie, too."

He pauses, and something occurs to Carlton before the selkie opens his mouth again:

"If you were born in human form, where did the sealskin come from? Or― _were_  you...?"

Judging by Lassiter's face, he's imagining a sort of grotesque birth scene. Shawn has to breathe a short laugh, and to assure him―

"Not like  _that_ , trust me. It actually just, uh...  _happened_ , when I jumped in after her. Like the seal part of me just knew that I  _knew_ , now, and it grew around me... Or something. I must admit I wasn't thinking much about it at the time―I sort of expected it to happen, really."

"So you just... ran away immediately."

"Course not!" Shawn insists, sounding offended. "I asked Gus first.  _And_  I made sure to give my father a hearty 'fuck you' before I left."

Even with that, Carlton would like to say or even think that he could  _never_  imagine behaving impulsively like that. But he can hardly help briefly reliving his own running away from home, over a decade ago, nor could he ever forget the way he parted with his mother and especially not the way he  _wished_  he could have parted with his father rather than being unceremoniously left a bastard...

But then, he still does have contact with his mother. Actually leaving someone so  _definitively_  like that... is hard to imagine. It makes him think, for a moment, of Victoria.

He might think of her more if it didn't also make him remember a man who used to work with the old Sheriff when Carlton first returned to An Daingean after the Rebellion―whom he knew to live very close to shore and whose wife and nearly grown son had disappeared.

Very abruptly, he slaps a hand down on the rock and shifts his intense gaze to the selkie.

"You're... you're  _Henry Spencer's_  boy, aren't you?"

Shawn's face falls, and his heart stops. For a moment he's frozen, and it almost seems as though the waves are frozen as well, before he sits up straight.

"I'm no one's  _boy_ ," he snaps, unlike Carlton has yet heard him. He's silent, again, for another few seconds while he forces himself to relax. And tells himself this was bound to happen. "...But I'm― _yeah_ , I'm Shawn Spencer. I guess that means you  _did_  have the misfortune of knowing my father, huh?"

"Barely," he tells him. "I spent most of my teens and twenties in and out of town... Only ever spoke a few words to him, if any." Carlton draws in a sharp breath, and then thinks to ask, "Why do you say ' _did_  have the misfortune of knowing him?'"

A bit out of it now, Shawn takes a moment to shrug and say, "Last I heard he moved. East."

"Well―" Carlton pauses as Shawn looks up at him, then deliberates. "Anyone who's lived in An Daingean for at least the past fifteen years has heard about what happened."

"And what is it that ' _happened_?'"

"That you―well, now it obviously isn't  _true_ , but―Spencer said that his wife got sick with hysteria and that... his son ran away in a show of grief."

For reasons he's all but ashamed of, it's painful for Carlton to look at him as he tells him that. Shawn can only bring himself to shake his head down at the featureless rock, and to smile, increasingly wide and mirthless.

"Huh. Of course he'd say that." He rubs a hand over his face and chuckles for a little bit too long. "Little kernel of truth in every lie, he always said..."

Not too far past this beach flanked by these small cliffs, he knows, is his old cliffside home. And not even seeing it but just _thinking_  of it now... brings back too many memories too damn quickly. Shawn very suddenly feels so much more than he can bear―contempt for his father, contempt for humans in general, contempt for this very  _form_ ―

He can't. Not right now.

With no warning to Lassiter other than a growled but genuine  _sorry_ , he is back in the water. Swimming away with no sense of direction, but merely a need to be away from land.

_God._

He remembers his mother kissing him on the forehead one day with no precedent, telling him that she was sorry, and immediately rushing out the door.

He remembers chasing after her, Henry close behind. He remembers watching in confusion and horror as she clutched a seal pelt tight and jumped fifty feet, headfirst, into the ocean.

He remembers being, and is honestly  _still_  surprised, after all these years... that Henry actually told him the truth at all. That the man didn't just let him believe that his mother went insane and killed herself.

But none of that matters now. His mother isn't  _gone_ ―she's right here! She's in his pod, just like she's always been! And Shawn can be with her, and even  _talk_  to her, whenever he likes.

It doesn't  _matter_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The honorable mention from canon in this chapter is Strode, aka Woodrow Strode, aka Woody the coroner. 
> 
> Also, some things about literacy in common folk during this time period and in this part of the world: It was pretty fucking rare! In general, the only people who would’ve been reading were merchants, scholars, certain law-keepers, and ruling class people. Knowing how to read when your profession didn’t call for it, and/or reading books that weren’t the Bible, especially if you were a woman, may have even been grounds for someone to accuse you of witchcraft - well into the 1600s.
> 
> But I would feel weird crafting a universe where any of the Psych gang wasn’t literate regardless of how unlikely it might be, honestly. It would just feel wrong.


	6. Rose

_You'll never get a girl acting like that, Carlton. I hardly think any boys would be too keen, either._

_School? What the hell do you want to do that for?_

_A_ rebellion _? Fine, go ahead and die a useless death. You're never at home anymore anyway..._

_You're making that up. I never did any of that to you. I don't know_ how _you got it in your head that I felt that way._

_You're just lying to turn me into a monster, that's all you've ever done!_

 

At any given time, that handful and more of Carlton's own memories are lying in wait, in the back of his mind, to ambush him. It's a curse he's learned to deal with over most of his life, and of which he's come to think almost nothing of.

Though the white-hot rage that spikes upward never comes any less fiercely. Not even now.

He understands how Shawn could be driven to leave like that by mere mention of his father, even if he doesn't know exactly what the man did to him. He truly does, and he holds the selkie in no contempt for any kind of 'rudeness' in that regard—like his own mother might.

But now he finds himself wondering desperately what  _did_  happen between them. What terrible things  _must_  have happened to cause the pained look that Carlton watched the selkie's face become. Even as he knows next to nothing about the personal lives of any of the Spencers to begin with... it will not leave him.

He also finds that, as much as he wishes it didn't, it aches.

It aches even worse, somehow, when he makes the trek back down to the shore the very next afternoon and remains alone. When he tries again the day after that, and even the day after  _that_ , and Shawn still makes no appearance.

Shawn has a right to be upset and to not want to talk to him—Carlton understands that. He  _does_.

What he doesn't understand, however... is why  _he_  has continued to try to speak to him at all. He got a backstory out of the selkie, didn't he? Isn't that what he wanted? What more does he even have to say?

Why should he  _care_?

_I don't,_  he tells himself, feeling angry and a bit ashamed that he would waste so much time.  _I don't care. I'm done._

Having no need for that book anymore, Carlton returns it to Juliet with a simple thanks. Tells her that his curiosity has been fed well enough, that this lapse in focus on the town and on his actual  _job_  is over.

That he would prefer no further talk of the selkie or any other fae in his house.

 

*

 

"Have you seen Shawn lately?"

In all his years of working as the Sheriff in An Daingean, and all the emergencies he's had brought directly to his home, he doesn't think that the Apothecary has ever once been at his door.

And that alone  _would_  be a bit more startling if not for the implications of the question that he asks the moment Carlton opens it.

"...Why would I have seen him?" he carefully responds.

The Apothecary doesn't skip a beat, quickly looking far more annoyed than he was and surprising the  _hell_  out of Carlton,

"Don't play dumb, Sheriff. You think Shawn doesn't tell me everything? God, I—I don't care if it  _embarasses_  you, he hasn't been showing up the past week, and I'm  _worried_. I didn't know if maybe he was just too tired to transform again when you already went down there, or—"

"It was exactly a week ago." He'd admit that he was impressed with the man's confidence, too, if he wasn't suddenly struck with a rush of guilt. "...Tuesday. He got upset and stopped showing up."

There's a glint of something intense in the Apothecary's eyes, for the first time that Carlton has seen.

"What did you do?"

"Why do you assume I  _did_  something?"

"Because I  _know_  Shawn! And I might not know  _you_  very well, but I know your reputation, which  _isn't_  exactly the nicest one."

Now he can't say he's  _impressed_  so much as a little annoyed. He narrows his eyes, about to tell this man that  _a sheriff doesn't need to be nice_ —

But stops himself as he remembers that this is, indeed, his fault. And that it didn't even come from him being purposefully mean.

"...It was probably because the subject of his father came up," Carlton finally tells him.

The Apothecary blinks. "And how did it ' _come up_?'"

"Is that any of your business?" Even if he didn't realize it the moment he said it, the other man promptly gives him this  _look_. Carlton sighs. "I realized that he was Henry Spencer's son based on things he mentioned about his childhood, and I said so, and he asked me how I knew and so  _I told him_. Alright? That's it."

He expects the selkie's friend to continue to get angry and to accuse him of having hurt him somehow, but the man instead dawns a look of understanding. Though a bit of exasperation, too.

"Okay, that... makes sense. I was worried he was already 'traveling' again, but... If hearing about Henry's what did it, it'll be less than ten days before he's back and acting like nothing even happened." He lets out a short laugh, giving Carlton the impression how deeply relieved he is. "Just—for future reference, do  _not_  bring up Henry unless Shawn does it first."

"Figured that for myself, yeah," he grumbles.

But will he really ever _need_  that future reference?

He neglects to say that he doubts he will before the Apothecary thanks him, tips his hat, and walks away.

 

*

 

Within another week, Carlton sees evidence that the selkie has gotten over himself just as his friend predicted. That is, that friend, as well as his own houseguest for the very first time, begin visiting the shore on a regular basis.

Either that or Juliet and the Apothecary are stealing away for some private time, but he says nothing either way.

_He_  simply resumes his sheriff duties in the manner that he should have been at them all along.

He makes no more time for distractions. He allows less time for idle thought, even in his meals or while he sharpens his blades back to their properly intimidating edge. He wakes up earlier to avoid the dreams that chase him. He spends less time at home, and less time in conversation with Juliet if he can help it.

He spends a bit more time in the pub, truly.

He approaches the Sovereign on his own time for the first time in months and pleads, again, for Vick to consider his proposal. Still to no avail.

He tries again to form a satisfying response to Victoria's letter, to no avail as well.

He... resumes attending Catholic Mass for the first time since Victoria left. It makes him feel no better, nor does it help his relationship with the local English authorities, but he feels compelled regardless. Hopeful, perhaps, that it will put things back to normal.

But it  _can't_ , really, when he can still hear something like—

"Shawn's transforming back today."

It sounds casual, but Carlton has to believe that it's deliberate—something to keep him from leaving the house so quickly. To keep him here for conversation. Or simply, even, to just watch him freeze.

"And why should I care?" he asks in spite of himself.

Juliet shrugs and makes a noncommittal sound. "He'll be in town for another month, probably doing all the same, 'infuriating' things he was doing the other month—thought you might like a warning?"

"... _Well_ ," he makes a point of quickly sheathing his sword, "I don't think there's anything I could do to prepare, is there?"

"You  _could_  come down with me and Gus to see him come in."

"What, it takes more than two people to hand him some clothes?"

"Alright, fine—he  _wants_  you to be there," she says, finally convincing him to face her.

"What? Why?"

"He said it's a surprise." She shrugs again.

Carlton lets out a mirthless laugh and fixes the rest of his appearance as quickly as he can whilst heading toward the door.

"You can tell him I don't have  _time_  for surprises."

 

***

 

With the potential winnings on his end being that he gets to sleep in the bed this month, and the potential loss being tasked with cleaning the apothecary for the month, Shawn and Gus have made a bet:

Gus doesn't believe that he can launch himself out of the water as a seal, take his sealskin off mid-air, and land on his feet.

"I've never seen a seal jump more than a couple of feet out of the water, Shawn," he said. "It isn't possible."

But what Gus doesn't quite realize, even after all these years, is that even when Shawn  _looks_  like a seal, he isn't quite one. He has the very same enhancements in strength, and health, and endurance, as he does when in the form of a human.

Though to his friend's credit, Shawn doesn't think he's ever brought it up.

The evening of, he waits a bit of distance from shore for his full audience to arrive—routinely poking his head up, and splashing around with impatience, every minute past moonrise that a certain sheriff isn't there. He knows that his personal concept of time can't be the best, but  _surely_  it isn't moving this slow  _just_  for him.

_This is getting ridiculous,_  he thinks, as unwilling as he is to waste something like this on only two sets of eyes.

And then he sees a familiar shape sliding down the short cliffside.  _Finally._

Starting several ships' lengths out at sea, Shawn dives to get his swimming start. He jerks his flippers with more force than he's  _ever_  had reason to (discounting the few times that he rehearsed this) and shoots through the water like a bullet, waiting until it becomes  _just_  shallow enough...

And he kicks himself off from the sea floor, leaping up an  _impressive_  height (if he does say so himself) of at least fifteen feet before he begins to fall.

As Shawn becomes airborne he breaks through his sealskin with ease, leaving only his landing—

And his feet find something entirely other than sand—

And he jerks back to keep from causing damage, which only throws off his own balance—

And he and Lassiter go tumbling to the ground.

 

*

 

For a fraction of a second, as the air is knocked out of his lungs and as the back of his head collides with hard, packed sand, Carlton's world is black.

Then it is a striking,  _deep_  twilight blue.

And above him is a very naked and concerned-looking Shawn, and in what sounds like the far distance are the surprised shouts of Juliet and the Apothecary, and...

" _Shit, Lassie—are you okay?"_

...and the air will not return to Carlton's lungs.

Even as the selkie lets up, he cannot find a response, nor can he bring himself to move. He can only stare upward, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, at the increasingly familiar face above his own. For a moment he is even  _there_  again— _his lungs are burning, his armor is heavy, the sky is bright. His eyes are watering._

And he sees an angel in the form of a young, naked man, whose long wet hair is clinging to his face, who is so  _close_  to him—

" _You_ —"

That word comes out and Carlton is thrown upward into a brief coughing fit, as well as back into present day, with the color and sounds all rushing back at once.

"Oh, thank  _God_ —"

"—didn't mean to do that, I didn't even know I  _could_  land that hard—"

"—looked like he was in some kind of  _shock_  for a second, there—"

" _I'm fine!_ " Carlton shouts, just to get it to stop. It only works long enough for him to stand up, and then,

"Are you sure?" from Shawn, and,

"What are you even  _doing_  here, Carlton? I thought you said you 'didn't have time for surprises,'" from Juliet.

Oh, right. There  _was_  that.

"...Well, it's—my curiosity got the best of me," he readily admits, unable to think of a lie while his heart beats so harshly, and while the slightest peripheral view of Shawn makes his head feel light.

Still, he cannot help but take another glance directly at him. The sealskin is wrapped around his waist, now.

"And if  _that_  was the surprise—"

"I swear, I was supposed to land on my feet and it was supposed to be way more impressive," Shawn tries to qualify, "I probably  _would_  have if—"

"—then I suppose I was right, wasn't I? I'll be on my way."

It's then the moment that his back his turned, it seems, that Carlton's realization truly hits him.

 

*

 

He's sitting alone in front of his fire, in utter stillness and silence, for no less than a half-hour before it comes. And when it does, he has wholly expected it—

To the point that he is up the very second that he hears the first knock, and he is pulling the selkie inside almost entirely without looking, and he is slamming the door shut and turning around against it.

" _Spencer_ ," he greets sharply.

Of all that's happened since he transformed back, Shawn has to say that  _that_  is the oddest.

"So as soon as you find a way to be formal with me, that's it, huh?" He raises an eyebrow and exhales a laugh.

And then meets Lassiter's intense gaze when he doesn't respond in any capacity.

Instead, in a belated rush of bravery and with his eyes locked on the selkie, Carlton asks,

"It was you, wasn't it?"

Shawn frowns. "...You're going to have to be more specific than that, Lassie. If you're asking whether I was the one who won that bet between me and Gus, the answer to that is still up in the air. See, I didn't do  _exactly_  what I said I was going to do, but what kept me from landing on my feet really had nothing to do with my own ability—"

"Why did you  _come_  here?" he all but shouts over him, brows knitting ever closer together, neck arching ever outward.

Hands, and back, pressing ever tighter on the door.

Shawn's own gaze is locked on his, now. He's silent for a moment, and then his voice is soft as tells him the truth:

"...To figure out what the hell happened back there, Lassie. You weren't hurt—I could see that as soon as you started walking away... But judging by the look on your face I'd have guessed that you—I don't know,  _died_  and came back to life, or something."

As he finds the selkie searching his eyes, Carlton finds himself relaxing as well. He remains against the door, however, desperate to keep any potential interruptions out.

He takes a long breath. It doesn't quite feel like enough, but it'll have to do.

"Ten years ago," he starts, voice quiet but firm. "...Give or take. Ten years ago, Spencer, you saw a man drowning in the ocean some miles away from here, and you grabbed him, or... hooked your seal teeth into him, and carried him up to shore and—" He pauses, finding the words briefly unwilling to come. "And... you saved his life. Tell me I'm right."

He doesn't actually know whether he'd prefer to be, somehow. Not even as he watches the selkie's head tilt and his face stretch into awe.

"...I had a feeling that was you," is all Shawn can bring himself to say. He breathes out another laugh, though this one feels a bit more like a sob.

In truth, he hasn't dwelled on the notion. He's found familiarity in Lassiter's features, most often fleeting,  _occasionally_  bothering him for longer... but he never supposed precisely what all that meant until now. And yet, it seems so  _obvious_. And for the next minute, his chest swells with relief, and with hope for all the things that this could mean, and with all the  _desire_  that he has been ignoring—

And Carlton's does the same, but all that fills him with a kind of distress that he cannot  _take_.

"Why did you save me?"

The question feels stupid even before it comes out of his mouth, but he can't help it. Shawn, at least, doesn't hesitate to tell him,

"I couldn't just let you drown, could I?"

"Were there any other soldiers in the water?" he asks just as quickly, but—he thinks—far more reasonably.

"I don't... think so? Think I would have seen them if there were."

Carlton promptly squeezes his eyes shut and lets out a single laugh, to himself.

"Then I probably  _was_  the only one who survived, after all..."

The reality of that very quickly, for the first time in nearly a decade, becomes almost too heavy to bear. Knowing that he was  _one_  in several hundred, commanders included. That he should have by no means lived to see today.

That the man and selkie standing in front of him is the  _reason_  that he avoided such a useless death.

That for a very long time, he had truly believed his savior to be an angel, whether appearing physically or merely in a dream. That he kept it almost entirely to himself for this past decade. That he has had... so,  _so_  many dreams about the man standing before him, and that they all felt the same as he did when he'd first stared up at him, bleary eyed.

_I was a young man then,_  Carlton reminds himself in desperation.  _Practically not a man at all._  He had long to be married and was fool-hearted and immature and  _far_  less concerned with morals...

And he is by no means the same person now.

"You had a  _feeling_  it was me," he finally croaks out, turning back to the selkie with forced anger in his gaze, "...but you didn't tell me?"

The truth of the matter aside, Shawn can only react to the sting that that gives him.

"Huh. I was thinking you might say something along the lines of 'thank you for saving my life,' but—"

"You don't  _understand_." Carlton shuts his eyes and shakes his head at nothing in particular. At himself, perhaps. "I... I can't thank you when I'm—I should  _hate_  you, Spencer!"

"Hate me," Shawn repeats flatly. He'd feel more hurt if he wasn't so confused. "What for?"

"For—God's sakes,  _for showing up when you did!_  You could have come and... stolen some clothes and become a responsibility for me and created this whole  _ordeal_  years ago, but you  _had_  to pick now, huh? You—what was I supposed to  _do_?"

He knows he's becoming hysterical as he yells that, particularly as he moves away from the door to pace, but it's eating at him in a way he cannot otherwise help.

"You run away, and I do my  _job_ —but you jump off the fucking cliff and you're a  _selkie_ , which are not supposed to be  _real_  in the first place, and in all this time Victoria has had the chance to up an abandon me—and I know, I just  _know_  that wouldn't have happened if you hadn't shown up..."

Carlton's lips and nostrils flare up in passive rage as he mutters that last part, mostly to himself.

But Shawn still hears it. And just about everything inside him, conversely, goes cold.

_Seriously? That's_ still _what this is about?_

"Look, I'm sorry, but you can't blame  _me_  for your wife leaving you, Lassie," he all but spits.

And Carlton stops pacing. Eye contact with him feels painful, now.

"I can sure as hell try, Spencer."

Shawn  _scoffs_ —"All I did was inadvertently give her the means, and you  _know_  it. Trust me, I've thought a lot about it! And you know what,  _Lassie_? Your wife left you for the same reason my mother left my father. Has it even occurred to you that maybe it wasn't her who abandoned you at all? That maybe it was  _you_  who was a bad husband?"

And then—finally, oh God  _finally_ , the ambiguity to Lassiter's anger  _ends_ , and he gets right and properly up in Shawn's face. Eyes bloodshot and teeth snarling and all.

"Don't you dare, Spencer, act like you know  _anything_  about Victoria, or our marriage, or even  _me_."

"Well, I don't know what you want from me," he shoots back with equal vitriol, "when you're standing there telling me it's  _my fault_  your marriage was bad, like I'm not the reason you're alive—not that I even wanted to hold that over you, but  _Jesus Christ_ —"

"I want you to  _leave_."

Shawn's sight was already getting blurry at the edges, but hearing that, in such a cold and even tone, makes it nearly impossible to keep from letting go.

" _That's_  what I fucking want from you right now," Carlton tells him, digging his fingernails into his own side to stop himself from reaching forward instead. "Just— _get out_. GET THE  _HELL_  OUT, SPENCER!"

So Shawn does. Without another word.

 

***

 

Juliet walks in—or  _out_ , really—on him working an axe on the grindstone behind the house. She says something that he doesn't hear until he lets the stone slow to a stop.

" _What_ , O'Hara?"

"I asked what you were upset about."

"Who said I'm upset?"

He is inspecting the edge of the axe rather than facing her, but he knows that her prolonged pause, then, means that she is giving him some kind of look.

"You're sharpening an axe that you did hardly a week ago," she says. "In near darkness."

"I have a lantern!" Carlton lifts it up to show her.

She doesn't seem impressed.

"...Did Shawn tell you when he came up? Is that why?"

At that, he nearly drops the lantern. He has to be glad for the darkness, now, in which Juliet likely can't see the flush of embarrassment in his face, nor the way his eyes widen before he snaps,

"Tell me what?"

"Oh—I guess he didn't, then, unless you're... lying." She frowns, probably trying to figure out just that. "But he, um, just a minute ago... told Gus and I that he decided not to stay on land past tonight. Something about needing another month back in the water before he's ready again, I guess."

Now  _she's_  noticeably a bit upset, sighing and letting her shoulders slump, and looking off in the distance where there's surely nothing to see... and luckily  _not_  noticing Carlton going through motions of his own.

"...He did tell me that," he lies, when she turns back. "But I'm not the least bit upset about it. Don't push your fancies onto  _me_ , O'Hara."

Carlton promptly returns his attention to the axe, and within seconds hears her sigh again, then the rustle of grass as she walks away and the shut of the back door. Immediately, he brings the axe down on a nearby log and nearly his whole self with it.

He doesn't necessarily  _believe_  he'd be on the ground if not for the grindstone to lean on, but he absolutely feels that way.

His stomach turns something  _wretched_. He closes his eyes.

_How_  is the selkie doing this to him? Why the  _hell_  should Carlton care if he's gone considering all the bullshit that he spewed to his face little more than an hour ago—why  _does_  he?

It's... it's  _guilt_ , he eventually decides. Nevermind that he can't recall the last time it ate away at him so forcefully, that must be what it is, and  _insanely enough_  it pains him so much more to sit with it than to give into what it wants.

But that still does pain him. Like fire in his chest, increasing with desperation every running stride that he makes, away from his home, in the dark.

And yet he feels no hesitation, no urge to turn back and leave this alone. Carlton's resolve  _is_  stronger than most, he would think, even if not for how terrible he feels and the seeping panic that he may have waited too long to go after him, that he's too late—

He sees no human figures on the shore upon reaching it, but does spot a seal atop a rock.

" _Shawn?_ " he calls, to an evident turn of the seal's head.

He rushes to make the climb down the cliffside, scraping himself a bit in the process, but he ignores it as he makes it to the beach and calls Shawn's name again. The seal continues to stare at him but doesn't move. He hesitates only slightly to walk toward it.

"Hey... is that you?"

It tilts its head. He doesn't know what to do but keep staring back.

"I don't look anything like that," comes a voice from behind him, along with a scrape of rock. "My whiskers are  _much_  longer."

Carlton twists around to a smiling, breathless Shawn, whom he is similarly only able to stare at.

"...You—" The moment he finds his voice again, he briefly tears his gaze away and breathes a quick, empty laugh. "You know I only meant to get out of my house, not the whole  _town_ , Spencer."

He sounds oddly calm compared to earlier.

Feels like it, too.

"I wasn't planning on leaving for  _good_." Though he might have felt a bit like it. "I just didn't want to have to go out of my way to avoid you for a month."

"You were going to spend another month as a seal... just to get out of an awkward situation?"

"I've spent longer," Shawn tells him with a casual shrug. "And honestly, it's fine. I'll get out of your precious town and you won't have to see me and think about all the  _trouble_  I've caused you..."

There's a small smile on the selkie's face as he says that, and— _Jesus_ —of all things, why does  _that_  have to make Carlton feel so bad?

" _Shawn, please,_ " is what seems to spill out of his mouth, next. Shawn's head jerks up, and for a second or two, their gazes lock. It takes a great deal of dignity from Carlton to break it. "...Thank you. For saving my life. I— _I appreciate it_ , alright? I do. And for...  _some_  reason, I don't actually hate you for the things that you may or may not have caused."

Slowly, but just as surely as Carlton's own expression sinks upon realizing what he's admitted, Shawn's stretches into a grin.

"You want me to stay that bad, huh?"

"It's not—" Carlton turns away in a quick and deep pulse of shame, and then all the way back around. "What I want is for you to  _not_  make your friends go out of  _their_  way to visit you for an hour each day for another month, when you can just  _be_  with them—I know O'Hara would be moping about it, and she'd be insufferable...  _And_ , you know, it's only a matter of time before a Burgess notices something odd about the Apothecary's schedule and starts asking questions, and you know who'll have to make sure he faces no random cruel accusations?  _Me!_ "

Shawn only grins wider as Lassiter rants on. And  _after_  he's finished, too, up until the man seems to finally relax.

"...I, uh. Didn't mean what I said either," he brings himself to admit, then. Though with no more ease than Lassiter did, as much as he might appear so. "I don't... I don't know what it's like to be married, or to even  _be_  with one person for so long—not counting Gus, of course, but. We've been together since we were babies. He's like a brother, and—it's  _different_ , I'm sure, than marriage. So I get it. Or I get that I don't get it. And... you don't actually seem like you'd have been a bad husband."

Carlton very nearly laughs as he says that, because—

_No, I actually, truly was,_  something inside of him wants to scream.  _Don't be sorry, you had it right the first time!_

But he mentally beats that voice back with a stick, and instead takes a deep breath, strides forward, and extends his hand.

"Truce?"

For a moment, Shawn merely stares at the proffered hand, the same way that Lassiter stared at his two months ago. Then he resolves and reaches out his own.

"Yeah, truce."

"...Your handshake is terrible," Carlton tells him, still holding on.

"So I've been told."  
"Have you— _grip_  my hand, dammit—have you  _ever_  done this before?"

"Hey—go easy on me, I have flippers most of the time!"

Carlton laughs and lets go—and then wipes away his own grin, for fear of seeming overzealous.

"So. You're staying?"

Shawn nods, and does him the favor of remaining casual. "Yeah. Except—you know, the moon won't actually set for a few hours... You want to go for a swim?"

" _Absolutely_  not."

"What, you can't swim? Huh, explains why I had to save you—"

"I  _can_ ," he feels the need to correct immediately. "But I don't."

"You... don't swim," Shawn repeats, frowning. "At all?"

Carlton is silent for a couple beats. Then he sighs again.

"I haven't gone on the water in  _any_  fashion since you pulled me out of it, ten years ago. Hell—sitting out on the rocks talking to you, or even just standing right here, is by far the closest I've gotten."

In ten years he's never admitted to a single person  _why_  he's refused to go on the water, either. Those who knew him since before he left with the Rebellion have guessed, sure, but... they've certainly guessed wrong.

He isn't afraid of drowning. Not any more than he's reasonably afraid of cliffs or of Englishmen—he recognizes the danger they pose, just as many aspects of life do, and he remains vigilant. He's always understood that the ocean was a deadly place, anyway.

What  _has_  filled him with crippling fear, however, is the notion of things like Shawn. Of things that tested his belief, that  _shouldn't_  exist, that... made him feel a way he could not explain.

Not then  _or_  now.

But it's about too late for that, he supposes.

"That's fair," Shawn tells him, quite genuinely. "A little dramatic, but I get it. I'll just have to go for that swim by myself..."

He immediately begins undoing the fastens on his clothes, at which Lassiter averts his gaze just as quickly. Shawn smirks.

"You don't have to stay and watch me, Lassie.  _But—_ " he adds, just as the man is about to get defensive, "Hey, uh... just in case I get tempted."

And he holds out his messily folded sealskin, pushing it inches away from Lassiter's chest. Keeping it there until he looks him in the eye and takes it of his own volition, wordlessly repeating last month's deal. Then resuming his strip without hesitation.

Meanwhile Carlton turns away again, figuring he ought to put the skin underneath his coat before he climbs back up. As he does, even in the mere moonlight he can't help but notice—

The scrapes that  _should_  be on his hands from his climb down, along with the mild stinging... are now completely gone. As though they were never actually there.

Just as his heart skips a beat, he hears the telltale splash of the selkie jumping into the tide, and he is unable to stop his eyes from following the noise. There's no bare ass or bollocks for Carlton to accidentally see above water, now, but he still feels very odd about watching. Even for just a second.

But he still  _does_.

It's just that... he unhesitatingly referred to the Apothecary, and even Juliet, as Shawn's friends a few minutes ago. And it's just occurred to him, for the first time, that  _perhaps_...

Perhaps Carlton himself is among them, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note about the Protestant Reformation and the tension between Protestants and Catholics during this time period: 
> 
> Under Tudor rule, Catholics in Ireland were absolutely marginalized and would even have their property seized. However, there would be no actual laws that banned Catholic Mass and practice in Ireland for another hundred years. So I would imagine - while this isn’t necessarily historically backed with evidence - that Lassiter could be good enough at his job that him attending Mass wouldn’t be grounds for him to lose his job. An Daingean’s Sovereign _could_ look the other way for the sake of order being kept.
> 
> Just... didn’t want anyone thinking that was some major discrepancy on my part.


	7. Claiming pt.1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s summer, Shawn’s got his selkie skin on backward, and he’s ready to fucking party.
> 
> And for reference, Fear Dearg is pronounced “Far darrig.”

"I'm counting on you to be unbiased here, Jules."

"And by  _unbiased_ , he means that you'll side with him―"

"Yeah, because it's the  _objectively_  right answer, Gus!"

They've been arguing about this all morning. The first night wouldn't have mattered, anyway, with Shawn being unable to get tired enough to sleep, but he is determined to get the reward he deserves for the rest of the month. Gus is equally determined to get his.

So they've brought in a third party.

"I don't know, Shawn," Juliet tuts, slowly shaking her head. "You never  _did_  specify anything with Gus on only halfway completing the bet. Only on whether you could do all those things or whether you couldn't, and... well. You didn't. I'm inclined to say that Gus won the bet."

Shawn sighs loudly―"We didn't get it in writing or any kind of magical contract either―and if  _anyone's_  going to get all nit-picky about the exact wording of our bet, shouldn't it be  _me_? The actual magical creature, here?"

"No offense," Juliet says, "but you're not exactly that sort of... Person of the Hills,  _are_  you? You're not even  _of_  the hills."

"I could be if I wanted to! Except I'm not, because―"

"Except when it suits you," Gus mutters.

"I'm  _not_ , because I'm a fair person!" Shawn insists. "And this is  _about_  fairness,  _not_  the exact words we used to make the bet, alright? Do you  _want_  me to be no better than some Fear Dearg twisting someone's words so that they have no choice but to give you their first born?"

At that, Gus and Juliet both frown and stare at him in silence. Shawn's shoulders drop.

"Okay, that might be a little too far. But the fact remains that I was  _clearly_  about to land on my feet before Lassie walked right in my way.  _And!_  The main thing that Gus believed I couldn't do wasn't even the landing, but the jumping in the first place―which you  _cannot_  argue I did―"

"Just because all I  _mentioned_  was the jumping doesn't mean I didn't also think you couldn't land, either," Gus scoffs. "And you can't prove that you'd have landed correctly without Lassiter there."

" _Speaking_  of Lassiter," Juliet starts, abruptly leaning forward, "why not get him to settle this instead of me? It's literally part of his job to help settle disputes."

"Well,  _I_  think you're perfectly fit to the job, too, Jules―"

"Shawn thinks that Lassie's going to be biased because he's the one that got landed on."

"Hm. I guess I can't disagree with that. He  _was_  pretty moody last night..."

Shawn holds his breath as Gus speaks, and he finds the struggle to appear casual even worse as Juliet says that. Assuming Lassiter didn't tell her, neither of them know that  _he_  was the reason Shawn almost decided not to stay, nor that he was the reason Shawn changed his mind. He does intend to tell Gus at some point, but...

It's a bit too complicated of a subject to get into.

And the notion that Lassiter would be biased isn't exactly  _inaccurate_. It just isn't quite the full truth―that Shawn thinks he may have actually given the man too much to worry about too recently to ask him for more. As petty as this is.

"...And you  _are_  the only other person who was there," he tells Juliet, willing his breath to come back. "So you're the only fair judge, here."

She puffs her cheeks out like she doesn't know what to do with this responsibility. But then, a short moment later,

"You know, you  _could_  just call the whole bet off and have neither of you win, and also neither of you lose."

Simultaneously and swiftly, Shawn and Gus shake their heads.

"Nope."

"Nuh-uh."

"If we wanted to do that, we wouldn't have called you here. I mean, we still probably would have, just not for this in particular―"

"Don't take the easy way out, Jules. Trust us, we can take whatever decision you make."

"Just not that one."

" _Fine_ ," she finally says, with a bit of an exasperated laugh. Then she takes a minute to clasp her hands together and think. "...Well. Here's the thing―there's really  _no_  saying for sure what would have happened had Carlton not been standing there. But it  _is_  undeniable that Carlton was in Shawn's way, and that Shawn completed the first half of the bet. So I say... you both lose,  _and_  you both win."

As Juliet looks please with herself, Shawn and Gus look at each other. Then back at her.

"So you're still taking the easy way out."

"No, I'm not! This is the fairest solution! It's also just a fair trade anyway―Shawn wants to sleep in the bed, he can work for it. Gus wants some labor, he can  _pay_  for it. That's the only decision I feel good making, okay, guys?"

They look at each other again, slowly narrowing their eyes and tightening their lips.

"Mmm..."

"Eh, I―"

"Sorry, Juliet, it's just a boring decision."

" _Yeah_ , I just... I really want to  _not_  have to do any work, is the thing."

"And if Shawn's going to do work for me, I'd rather it be a punishment than an exchange. We've known each other too long to do business like that."

"Well―" Juliet rolls her eyes, throws her arms up, and stands from the chair. "Flip a coin or something, then, because that's all I got for you two."

They watch her leave (and Shawn notices Gus really  _watch_  her leave) and, almost immediately upon the door closing, turn to each other once more.

"So―"

"Yeah, let's do it."

Gus promptly crosses the room to retrieve a shilling from a small chest, brings it back to Shawn, and tells him to pick a side.

And it lands on Gus's side.

"Aw, what?"

"HA!" his friend shouts, proceeding to jump and dance all the way back to the chest to put the coin away... and then some.

"Two out of three," Shawn insists.

"Nope!" Beaming with pure delight, Gus grabs a broom and pushes it into his hand. "Welcome to the first real work your lazy selkie ass has done in thirteen years.  _Sixteen years_ , if you don't count all the apprenticeships you started and quit. Which I don't."

Shawn knocks his forehead onto the end of the broom handle, reluctantly brings himself to begin sweeping, and grumbles,

"For the record, Gus, I  _have_  done some work since then."

"Making sand-castles doesn't count, Shawn. Neither does sleeping with people if you didn't get paid."

"Hey―believe it or not, I contribute to the community in my own way!"

Gus doesn't look like he believes it.

"... _Sometimes!_ "

 

*

 

It's been nearly a year since An Daingean had a death like this.

A death of a respected member of the community, that is. Of someone who owned a home, who earned their keep fairly, who is survived by children who cared for them... and, most oddly, who  _didn't_  already appear to be dying from any sort of sickness.

But the elderly do sometimes simply pass away in their sleep―Carlton has seen it a handful of times before. Ms. MacTiernan is lucky in that respect.

She isn't so lucky, meanwhile, in having her immortal soul handled so cavalierly by the Burgess who oversees her block. Even  _with_  Carlton to defend it.

"If you've forgotten, Lassiter,  _I_  am ultimately in charge of who enters this block and who doesn't. And I'd sooner expose my bollocks to the street than allow a Catholic clergyman to step foot on it. But hey―you could always try asking the Sovereign!"

"Very funny, Swaggerty," he spits, as the other man grins. "I'm sure it's absolutely  _hilarious_  to you that a good woman has to die without her last rites, and with her children desperately praying beside her that she'll get salvation anyway, hm?"

"Well, it's not  _my_  fault that her family's Catholic, now, is it?"

At that, Carlton steels himself―there are others on the street watching them, surely, and he can just as surely expect someone to find that to be the last straw, and to subsequently shout some nasty words at Swaggerty, at the least. Luckily, however, no one does. Perhaps because anyone who understands also realizes it would make nothing easier for anyone.

After all, they've been at this long enough―not only now, but in all the time Carlton has known the man―for him to see that absolutely  _nothing_  in the realm of morality is going to sway a man like Swaggerty.

So he grits his teeth and sizes the man up.

" _Fine._  I'll carry her body to the church myself if I have to―"

But Swaggerty steps in his way after he makes a single stride toward the MacTiernans' door.

"Ohohoho― _no_  you will  _not_!" He puts his fingers on Carlton's chest, seemingly for no purpose other than to drive him madder. "And expose whatever diseases are living in her corpse to the whole  _town_? No―you see, this woman and her death is  _my_  business, Lassiter. It's got nothing to do with law or crime. You said yourself it looked like she died in her sleep, so... I  _suppose_  you could wait around for my men to come and wheel her off properly if you care so much about getting her taken care of with God. Or you could leave and do your  _actual_ job, which is... keeping drunks from killing each other, I imagine?"

"So help me  _God_ , Swaggerty, I―"

Just then, as the other man's smile fades, Carlton is interrupted by a voice that for the first time, he thinks, he is actually  _lucky_  to hear. If only for all the rude things he might have said otherwise.

"Hey  _Sheriff_! I didn't know you spoke English?"

He has to be glad that the selkie didn't call him by that stupid nickname in front of the Burgess.

"... _Spencer!_ " he says, slowly turning around and avoiding Swaggerty's piercing gaze. Then, in very purposeful Irish, "Well, you know. I did go to college. And otherwise I wouldn't be able to communicate with my, ah... superiors. What's  _your_  excuse?"

Noticing the frustration in the Burgess's face as his eyes flit back and forth, Shawn quickly understands. He cheeks back a smile.

"I travel a lot, remember? Believe it or not I've picked up plenty of Spanish and French, too. And a little bit of Portuguese, a little bit of Dutch, Norwegian... but mostly just enough to say 'where are my pants?' in each."

Carlton finds that he has to try very hard  _not_  to be visibly amused at that. Which, considering the reason that he is here in the first place, is a bit infuriating. He tightens his lips and asks, simply,

"Don't you have some apothecary work you should be doing instead of bothering me?"

Now Shawn  _has_  to smirk, as he knows damn well that he wasn't bothering Lassiter just now. Even in spite of the reason that  _he_  is here―

"As a matter of fact, I finished it for the morning. And I didn't actually come here for you―I... heard Ms. MacTiernan died."

Carlton's face falls. He can't help but glance to Swaggerty, who has no doubt perked up upon hearing a name that he recognizes.

"...Word's getting around that fast, huh. You knew her?"

That's a stupid question, he realizes soon after he says it. The woman was old and lived in An Daingean her whole life; everyone knew her. Still, Shawn responds with uncharacteristic quietness:

"I was one of her favorite kids in town before I left. Or at least she told me that. For all I know, she said the same thing to every boy who did garden work for her... Am I, uh―can I go in and pay my respects?"

He asks that in English, getting the attention of Swaggerty again. Before the man can get a word out, however,

"That's up to her children," Carlton says, in English. "And you may very well wind up with no other chance to pay those respects, so... you might as well go ahead and ask."

The very moment the selkie walks off, Swaggerty laughs in that quick, sharp way that makes Carlton's stomach turn.

"Quite a  _pretty_  fellow, isn't he?" It turns back over. "You seem like you know each other well. Funny, because I hardly see him around... Except―well. I have seen him quite a  _bit_  around that young cousin of yours. Don't suppose they'll be marrying soon so she'll perhaps, ah... quiet down a bit?"

Carlton glares at him so fiercely, then, that Swaggerty pauses and lifts his hands up in defense.

"Oh―don't get me wrong, Lassiter, I like to think myself a progressive man, but... you must see it yourself! She's always about town, either by herself or with a couple unmarried fellows, just as  _loud_  as either of them, hair  _out_  and entirely uncovered... and you know how  _that_  looks." He laughs again. "Especially with her  _your_  family.  _And_  your housemate! ...How old is she?"

"That's entirely  _none_  of your business," Carlton snaps, lips stretching into a mirthless smile. "Not nearly old enough or with low enough standards to become your mistress, if that's why you're asking. Now―how  _is_  your wife, Swaggerty?"

The man narrows his eyes for a moment, but otherwise looks unfazed.

"How's yours?"

Carlton is frankly surprised, then, by how easily he moves past that sting and says,

"Oh,  _that_  hurts. I've certainly never heard that quip before."

"Mm. I'm sure it does hurt. Though, I imagine not as much as it will when―and I  _promise_  you this is me speculating, not making any kind of threat―when your cousin  _inevitably_ , one day, talks back to the wrong man... It won't be very pretty, I don't think."

"Oh, I  _absolutely_  agree. Poor man will have to find his way home with both eyes swollen shut!"

It occurs to him that Swaggerty likely thinks he means that  _he'll_  swiftly punish any man who lays his hand on his "cousin." Of course, he  _would_ ―but he's sure that  _anyone who can bring an axe down as hard as O'Hara does? Can handle herself just fine._

And  _then_  it occurs to him, with the small but certainly growing crowd around them, that this has gotten off track. That this exchange of cutting words is serving nothing but to  _distract_  him from fulfilling his actual duty and bringing justice to the grieving family so close by.

Swaggerty catches him staring at the MacTiernans' door.

"Your friend must know the MacTiernans well if they're letting him pay respects this long. You know―I really am confused, how  _has_  he gotten around An Daingean so well with my hardly ever seeing him?"

"Perhaps your sight is finally going," he responds lowly, still watching the door and desperately thinking up a plan. "And he's not my friend."

"Oh? Then what is he?"

"You  _might_  say I'm a bit of a... consultant," comes Shawn's voice from off to the side, at which Carlton whips his head around, then glances rapidly back and forth between him and the door.

"Hey―how did you―?"

"There's a back door. Also, why are you  _lying_  to people and telling them we're not friends?"

"I―" Carlton feels his face getting hot, but is luckily interrupted again:

"What did you mean by  _consultant_?"

Shawn turns to the Burgess with a polite smile. "Well, Swaggerty―that  _is_  your name, right? Fun name. It means that Sheriff Lassiter here sometimes consults with  _me_  in order to solve a problem. Which I do for free of charge, of course―"

"Oh, you mean the handful of times now you've shown up  _uninvited_  to a scene and offered me unsolicited advice?" Carlton growls.

"That's exactly what I mean." Shawn grins between them. "But you forgot to mention how each of those times, you did  _take_  my advice. And that it's worked out so far."

Now, Carlton doesn't even want a  _hint_  of what Swaggerty is thinking. He refuses to turn his head toward the man, and instead wipes his face, takes a deep breath, and continues in very harsh Irish,

" _Do I need to remind you that this man is_ above me _, Spencer?_ "

"I may not understand the language, Lassiter, but I know embarrassment when I see it," says the man in question, sounding amused. "How  _is_  it, though, that this boy is qualified to consult for  _you_? I've hardly seen you be willing to take advice from your actual superiors!"

"Oh―don't be fooled by my bright eyes and  _very_  well-kept mane," Shawn starts, a bit of an edge to his tone now. "I'm no mere boy. I only look young standing next to  _him_ , with his stress lines, and grey hairs... No offense, Sheriff. I'm sure it's the job that's aged you. But what makes me  _qualified_ , Swaggerty, is that I notice things that other people don't."

"And how's that?"

Carlton panics.

"His eyesight's very good. He eats a lot of carrots.  _And_  he likes to brag―and you know what, I  _do_  think there's some work of his own he ought to get back to―"

He grabs Shawn by the upper arms and begins to escort him away, fiercely whispering in Irish,

"Are you  _trying_  to make me lose my job?"

"What, by helping you?" Shawn whispers back incredulously.

"Telling people―an  _Englishman_  especially―that you can 'see things others don't' is going to get you accused of witchcraft. Which most certainly does  _not_  help me if you're also suggesting that I employ you in any fashion, and if you're furthermore distracting me from an actual,  _very_  serious and political matter―"

" _Actually_ , Lassie, if you'd just let me finish back there, I would've helped with that too. Because Ms. MacTiernan didn't die of old age or sickness."

They stop walking. Shawn feels a rush of satisfaction, even through his grief, as Lassiter faces him with wide eyes.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I  _noticed what other people couldn't_ ―which is that she was actually  _murdered_  in her sleep. By the older of her two kids, I'm pretty sure. Seamus stood to gain the most, after all, with him being tired of taking care of an old woman, and being right next in line to inherit the property..."

He trails off, caught in the other man's intense stare and in the tightening grip on his shoulder. And in the pulse of emotion that is unwittingly absorbed by Shawn's sealskin on Lassiter's back.

 _You may have just fucking saved this woman's soul,_  Carlton cannot help but think. What he says, meanwhile, takes a moment to come out.

"...Shawn. Can you  _prove_  it?"

 

***

 

As the moon wanes, so does a great deal of the cold. The new moon passes and June fades into July.

Being tasked with cleaning the apothecary actually keeps Shawn decently distracted from his yearning for the sea. So do the increasing opportunities to pop in on Lassiter―nevermind his sealskin hiding right underneath the man's coat―and point at his culprit, or help him diffuse a fight, or simply help him socialize... or even wind up at the mercy of a criminal and in need of help himself.

And so does dragging Gus around town, as well as stopping by the Sheriff's home to chat with a busy Juliet and occasionally dragging her away along with them.

Perhaps it's the aggressive lack of monotony, or perhaps he's merely getting better used to remaining on land. But Shawn feels  _great_ , even moreso with each passing day toward the next full moon, to the degree that when the summer heat truly grows he is in fact the  _first_  one to suggest going for a dip in the water.

And he remains confident as Gus turns to him with a look of terror.

"...Shawn, you're not talking about―?"

"Gus, don't be a beached whale. Of  _course_  I'm not. As long as I don't have my skin I can't possibly transform no matter how much I might want to, so I'll be fine! And look―it's  _perfect_  weather. You know you want to."

His friend still looks reluctant. Whether due to worry over Shawn's humanity or a mere lack of desire to leave the apothecary, or possibly anxiety about being punished for ' _un-Christian conduct_ ,' Shawn... can only assume it's all three, but―

"We could invite Juliet to come with us."

Gus's eyes light up.

"Alright, let's go."

 

*

 

Warm as it's getting, a great majority of An Daingean takes no such measures to keep cool. It is, after all, still perfectly habitable without even removing any layers for most. Carlton personally feels a bit chilly without his wool on even now.

And like the same majority of the town, he was raised strictly Catholic. Public nakedness even for the sake of  _bathing_... if nothing else, makes him a little nervous.

Not quite in the manner, though, that the ocean itself  _also_  makes him a little nervous... having only very recently stopped making him  _cripplingly anxious_ , of course―

He thinks that he may have simply gotten used to a life of never stepping foot in the water, after ten whole years. Of even going so far as to request that others collect his bathwater  _for_  him. No one may have been entirely aware of his reasons, but he has fostered a part of his identity and even somewhat of a  _reputation_  around them...

And Carlton has never been one to disregard any part of the persona he's created without a good reason.

Which is why he has very swiftly declined Juliet's invitation to join them each and every time he's been asked. No matter the time of day, the day of the week, the exact spot they'd plan to swim, the others in the water with them or lack thereof, whether or not there would be women, whether or not he had any specific prior commitments... nor even whether or not he felt any inkling of  _wanting_  to.

What he has _told_  Juliet, of course, is that he is simply too busy. That his job is too unpredictable for him to be completely unable to jump into action for very long at all,  _especially_  by reason of being wet and naked.

And what if any of the townsfolk caught wind of him, their incredibly respectable and  _venerated_  community leader, taking part in such juvenile and un-Catholic recreation? Why, Carlton imagines much of that respect would go out the window, at the very least.

Worse yet, he could very well wind up under even more scrutiny of the Burgesses than he already is! And by extension so could Juliet and the rest of them! The very idea of him going for even a very brief swim is, by  _all_  means, a terrible one!

Considering all that, Carlton hasn't the damndest clue why does not, or  _cannot_ , ignore the impulse to walk down to wherever they're swimming on any given day.

What he tells  _them_ , when they shout for him, is that he's only checking up on the scene, the same as he does his rounds throughout town otherwise. But he knows he has no need to, he knows there's little to no chance of anything  _illegal_  or otherwise immoral going on while they have their swim, and he knows that the rest of them certainly know that, too.

Though he supposes there  _is_  a chance of other townsfolk antagonizing them, now that those three have taken to swimming in the bay, where they're far more visible.

But there's no convincing himself that that was his worry all along.

There's no pushing it out of his mind, either, when ironically next to  _nothing_  in particular keeps Carlton busy in the middle of the others' swim-time. When the selkie continues to ask him, sometime after each swim, whether  _anything "fun" happened while we were in the water?_ When the selkie doesn't say  _anything_  about his decade  _out_  of the water, likely (and thankfully) due to the other two standing by... and yet it's somehow all Carlton can hear.

Perhaps those comments simply wear on him.

Perhaps the summer heat truly grows to the extent that even  _his_  perpetually cold skin aches for relief.

Perhaps it's boredom that takes hold of him. Perhaps it's curiosity, no different than what pulled him so close to shore the first time.

Or perhaps it's a different sort of ache altogether, more like a longing―for  _what_  exactly Carlton couldn't be quite sure but he can't be sure of anything when he's hardly even  _thinking_ , when he's following the wildest and most abrupt impulse he's ever had in his  _life_ ―

Whatever it is that ultimately does it, his inhibitions shut off long enough for him to hike up a cliff, shed every last bit of his clothes, and take a running start at the edge.

And just as he wraps his arms around his knees, still midair,

"LASSIE?"

He catches a glimpse of the excitement on not only Shawn's, but Juliet's and even Gus's faces the split second before he goes under.

 

*

 

Amidst all his emotion, Shawn gets an idea. The moment that Lassiter is no longer visible, he ducks under as well and kicks off in the other man's direction.

After several seconds he hears,  _almost_  incomprehensibly muffled by the water,

_"Where the hell did Spencer go?"_

He opens his eyes, and powers through the stinging long enough to find a pair of lily-white legs kicking their way through the water―and reaches out to grab one.

And then hears a muffled shout.

Shawn shoots up out of the water immediately after that, not wanting to miss the look on Lassiter's face―

Which is a _spectacular_ blend of shock, anger, and thinly-veiled amusement.

" _That―_ " Carlton reaches out for Shawn's shoulder and practically digs his fingernails in, struggling to keep the edges of his mouth from stretching ever upward, "...is  _not_ funny."

In all honesty, it still wasn't even close to what he'd anticipated that jumping in the water after all this time might feel like. He wondered if he would flashback to his moments of near death when drowning, like what he saw and felt when Shawn landed on him a month ago, or if he would briefly not remember how to swim, or if he might at least feel  _some_  irrational fear...

But that pull of his leg is the first thing that's made his heart race since he jumped. It's  _still_ racing.

He'd rather believe that  _that_  is why it's still racing, at least, rather than anything going on this very moment.

Such as Shawn beaming, and laughing, and grabbing his shoulders in return.

"Oh, it definitely was, but―more importantly, Lassie... you're actually  _here_!" Shawn couldn't contain his excitement if he tried. Of course, he'd had  _hopes_  that his repeated swimming excursions might draw Lassiter out of his self-imposed exile from the ocean, but he doesn't think he could have ever expected it to happen like this. "...And―and you're  _naked_! What happened to that modest Catholic boy, huh?"

Whatever switch it was that flipped off to allow him to jump in here, it flips back on as soon as he hears that word.

Shawn sees it, too, in the way Lassiter's face freezes and his eyes gloss over.

"...You alright?"

"Dear God, I'm naked," Carlton mutters in the smallest of voices, terrified to even glance down at himself. He does it anyway, and even with everything below his chest underwater he still feels compelled to cross his legs. "Why did I―I'm  _naked_..."

Shawn laughs again.

"Hell yeah you are! By the way, are you aware that it is a  _crime_  that you've been hiding all  _this_  from us...?" he says, gesturing to Lassiter's chest in awe. "My  _God_ , man, it's almost as thick as your  _beard_... Jules, have you seen this?"

Caught both in his own panic over his nakedness and in the conversational whiplash, Carlton finds it hard to be bothered by the selkie's eyes (and very briefly his fingers) raking over his chest hair―

But he is, at least, grateful that Juliet doesn't dignify that with an answer as she swims toward them.

"Carlton!" she finally greets, a little breathless. Unlike the rest of them, she's got a cloth wrapped around her chest and, presumably, one around her bits, too. "What made you change your mind?"

"Yeah," Gus joins in, making a splash as he comes up beside her, "I thought you were too busy?"

And before he can even completely register  _that_ ,

"HEY! SHERIFF! GLAD TO SEE YOU FINALLY HAVING FUN!"

A ways beyond the rest of them, where Carlton didn't see before, are the undeniable faces of Busby and Francine McNab.

He can't imagine what disarray their home is in if they're  _both_  here. But far more importantly,

"Son of a bitch, I'm naked in front of  _McNab_."

"Well, not unless you get out of the water, you're not."

That just gets Carlton worrying about how he's going to get his clothes back on without spending a considerable amount of time naked out in the open.

After ten years out of the water, it seems, he may have to never leave it again.

 

*

 

With his head back on straight, Carlton knows he certainly can't stay long. He cannot leave his clothes and by extension Shawn's sealskin  _unattended_  for long, if nothing else, and surely  _some_  trouble will come up in town soon enough.

But... crazily enough, he manages to enjoy himself while he can.

He practices his breaststroke for the first time since he was a teenager, and gets a decent workout on his shoulders.

He lets himself float, for a minute, and very quickly feels cleaner than he has in  _weeks_.

He watches the other five marvel over some starfish that Shawn managed to pry off a rock, as well as a pile of shells that he seems to have collected―and to be  _very_  proud of.

He watches McNab and his wife face off against Gus and Juliet in a game of chicken, at which the latter two win almost disappointingly quickly. Particularly as none of them are willing to have a man's bits up against their neck for the sake of another round.

He watches Shawn more than he means to, and, after some time... decides that some  _revenge_  is in order. If only to give himself an excuse for all of his staring.

Carlton slowly wades within his reach, waits until the selkie's back is turned, and then ducks under the waist-deep water. He surges forward until he can wrap his arms around Shawn's legs, at which he immediately kicks off the ocean floor and rises out of the water―Shawn balanced upright by sheer strength on his part―and he just  _barely_  registers a startled shout of " _Woah―!_ " before tossing the selkie in the air and sending him splashing back in the water a good distance away.

"That's what you GET!" he yells and laughs in triumph, even before Shawn completely resurfaces.

As Shawn does, however, he's laughing along. A deep, and awed, and  _proud_  laugh.

"You think you can beat me  _here_ , Lassie?" he shouts back, after a moment. "I spend most of my  _life_  in the water―the ocean is  _my_  turf!"

Chest swelling, heart racing, and his breath still escaping him... Carlton simply  _cannot_  help it.

"That sounds like a challenge." He grins and quickly swims after him.

 

*

 

In spite of Lassiter's strength, Shawn knows without a doubt that he could drown him with little effort, had he any such inclination. He could certainly out-swim him, too, even in this far less water-oriented form.

And he tells him so between breaths, while swimming further and further out, just fast enough to remain out of his reach.

"You don't want me to have to go  _easy_  on you, do you?"

"What makes you think  _I'm_  not going easy on  _you_  right now?"

To answer that, Shawn speeds up immensely, leaving Carlton to eat his words and catch his breath and―even as Shawn stops and turns around―to look  _very_  impressed against his will.

It takes the both of them a moment to notice, now, how far out from the shore they've swum. Gus and Juliet and McNab are featureless in the distance. Their feet no longer even graze seaweed as they kick, and the waves are large enough to push an extra boat's length of distance between them with each one―which Shawn is the first to notice almost too late.

" _Oh, shit_ ―"

Without hesitation he propels himself against the growing strength of the water, kicking with all of his own until his fingertips find Lassiter's―

"Woah―"

And he continues to fight the waves, dragging the other man along until he can feel the ocean floor again.

"See?" Shawn says, both exhilarated and smug. "Without me you could've been carried out to the current!"

"Without you I wouldn't have swam that far in the first place," Carlton snaps, albeit unable to hide his own exhilaration. He doesn't let go of him, either.

But he can't be so sure that he's actually afraid of drifting out again. With his hands around Shawn's biceps, and Shawn's now closing around his, and the absolutely  _alien_  freedom of nothing but saltwater on the rest of his skin... Carlton is reminded of the stories he was told as a child. Of the selkies who were waiting for him in deep waters and who would drag him under. Whose pretty human faces would turn into a predator's terrifying maw just before he became their meal.

Those stories don't give him an ounce of doubt, now, but feel  _only_  like stories. Insane as he feels for it... this is the most fun he can remember having, and the most carefree he can remember  _feeling_ , in quite a long time.

Rather than telling him any version of that, however, Carlton just stares.

And Shawn stares back. His heart skips a beat, and then his mouth opens without his permission:

"Has anyone ever told you how weird your hair looks when it's wet? Actually―has anyone else ever even  _seen_  your hair wet before now? Because―" A bit outside of himself, feeling overwhelmed by something he can't place, Shawn exhales a small laugh and brings a hand up to Lassiter's hair. He does his best to comb it into a better-looking shape. "...Now, if  _this_  was why you went so long without going in the ocean, I'd understand."

Carlton frowns but doesn't otherwise shift his gaze. He hasn't a clue how to respond to that.

The selkie's hand doesn't leave his hair. He doesn't respond to that, either.

Shawn feels a twinge of that  _something_  again that compels him to keep talking.

"You know what, Lassie? I'm feeling pretty damn good. And the next full moon is only in a couple days... I think I might stay another month. What do you think?"

Carlton's eyebrows shoot upward in surprise. "You can do that?"

"Oh―yeah," Shawn shrugs, as much as he can while keeping hold of him like this. "It's sort of a loophole, but I'll be fine as long as I get my skin and spend a little bit of time as a seal while the full moon is out. I mean, assuming I'll have the willpower to transform  _back_... Uh, speaking of which." He frowns, and remembers for oddly the first time since Lassiter showed up, "Where  _is_  my skin right now?"

_Oh―_

Oh, shit.

"It's..." For all the humility he's been getting used to practicing around the selkie, lately, Carlton never imagined he would be at  _this_  point. He takes a considerable pause before admitting, in the least sheepish way that he can, "It's up on the cliff. With, um. The rest of my clothes. And my sword."

Shawn maintains his frown for only another second before breaking into a  _deeply_  amused grin.

"That―that probably wasn't the  _best_  idea, was it?"

"I wasn't thinking," Carlton somehow admits much quicker than before, and with a short and self-deprecating laugh as he averts his eyes. "Actually I―God, I feel like I went  _insane_  for a minute..."

"Huh... How do you suppose  _that_  happened?"

Carlton glances back to him, then, and finds Shawn's face a world softer than he left it.

His heart is racing again.

All at once, he realizes that Shawn's hand has finally left his hair, that he desperately wishes that it  _hadn't_ , that he actually has a  _very_  precise answer for that question, and... that he somehow is not terrified to say it, in this moment.

"...You drive me―"

But he can hardly get halfway through it before a shout rings out across the bay, nearly startling him out of Shawn's grip entirely and drawing their attentions to shore.

 

*

 

"HEY!" comes McNab's voice a second time, accompanied by furious splashing.

Shawn catches a figure running away from shore with what looks like a bundle in their arms, and puts it together fairly quickly. And then he can't help but find the irony  _hilarious_ ―or  _is_  it irony? Whichever it is,  _Jesus, poor McNab._

"Come on, not  _again_!"

A split second later, long before anyone else can make it out of the water, Juliet gets on land and takes a running sprint after the thief.

There is a collective  _woah_  among everyone in the bay, then, particularly from Carlton who actually finds himself  _pausing_  in his haste to get to shore to do his own job, and―

"Holy―"

"GET HIM, JULES!" Shawn cheers from beside him, which he hears Gus and McNab echo while he hurries to get a better view of the chase, still dragging Lassiter by the arm, and...

And noticing the utter  _awe_  on the Sheriff's face.

Within seconds from then, still clad in only some strips of cloth and entirely unarmed, Juliet catches up to the thief and manages to tackle them to the ground. There is a faint  _oof_  that at least Shawn can hear, and then a shout from Juliet herself while she rips the bundle away:

" _You picked the wrong day to be a petty thief, dumbass!_ "

After that, Carlton simply can't resist.

"WAY TO FUCKING  _GO_ , O'HARA!"

 

*

 

Any shame he might have felt for winding up in the exact position that he repeatedly claimed to want to avoid is diminished by sheer pride.

Carlton is still in no way willing to be naked out in the open, however, so he asks Juliet for the quick favor of retrieving his belongings from the cliff as well. While she honors that, he uses the excuse of needing to dry off in a hidden space to avoid speaking to Shawn― _to the selkie_ ―and tries not to think of the moments that preceded Juliet's heroism, nor of the fact that he was lucky that no thief even caught sight of  _his_  clothes―

The very  _moment_  that he is able, he dresses himself and returns to his post, feeling both refreshed and... rattled.

The feeling remains long enough for him to make a very serious, albeit impulse decision.

 

_Dear Victoria,_

_I apologize for how long this reply has taken to reach you. I admit, I wasn't sure whether you even wanted me to reply. But I suppose you would like to know that I received your letter and I know and am glad that you are safe, even if it cannot be in my home, with me._

_I will not lie to you. I was very upset and still am. I cannot keep myself from being upset with you, and trust me, I did try. But I am also upset with myself. You were right―I will not follow you. I am sure you hoped I might prove you wrong, but I cannot and will not leave my home for good._

_However, in a turn of events, I believe I have finally escaped my qualms about the ocean, and that I have found some pairs of hands in which I could trust An Daingean for a brief time. So perhaps one day I could visit, if your father were not opposed._

_Fondly,  
_ _Carlton_

 

***

 

Rather than meet him at the shore like last time, Lassiter simply stopped by the apothecary at sunset and handed the sealskin over to Gus.

And he  _told_  Gus, apparently, that he was too busy to sit and "potentially wait hours" for Shawn to transform back, particularly with the possibility that he doesn't have the will to transform back at all... which Shawn can't say is unreasonable. But he still feels like there's a bit more to it, with the past couple days having been nearly void of him as well.

His main theory is that Lassiter just feels too awkward to face him right now.

But that's fine, because so does he. And at least  _he_ can wind down by letting go of his humanity for an hour or two or three, and swimming out farther and deeper than he was able to before, and meeting back with his pod and reassuring them that he hasn't abandoned them, and simultaneously being reassured that they haven't abandoned  _him_... and by getting quite the filling meal while he's at it.

With the moon so high in the sky, now, even after a month on land, he has very little worry that he'll fall prey to the ocean's charm. He feels that he could step right out, put his clothes back on, and return to town alone without looking back.

He knows that the feeling won't last all night, though. There is a relatively small window of optimism that remains while the moon is at its brightest, and which is likely enhanced by the sight of Gus and Juliet at shore―a reminder of why he wants to stay, of his human life.

Even now, as a seal, Shawn wonders precisely why it is that Juliet herself came. It isn't as though he's  _leaving_ , nor is he doing anything entertaining, and surely Gus doesn't need any help keeping the wind from taking Shawn's clothes...

He can't tell from out here, even with Gus's lantern to light the shore, but he guesses that either Gus invited her because he's afraid of the dark, or this is their idea of a private, romantic outing.

If it were possible on his seal face, he'd smirk.

It's likely the seal part of his brain, then, that makes him think to help them out by means of catching a few fish in his mouth and bringing them to shore.

He hops up onto the beach, spits them out where the waves won't be able to steal them, and hears an  _oh, that's gross,_  before ducking back into the water himself to transform.

Then he stands up and sees the mangled fish with new eyes.

"Oh, that's gross," he echoes, pulling his sealskin around his waist. "Why did I do that?"

"Is that a gift?" Juliet asks loudly as she approaches with Gus. "Because those could make a hearty couple of meals for me and Lassiter... Or even just one of them, really."

Neglecting to mention his earlier mindset, Shawn nods sharply and tells her, "Go ahead and take them, yeah."

He then trades his sealskin for the bundle of clothes in Gus's hand―ignoring the knowing look on his friend's face―and starts changing into them in that very spot.

"How is it that your skin is all in one piece this time?" comes Juliet's curious tone seconds later. Shawn looks up and finds her with folded arms, frowning between his skin and himself.

 _Funny,_  it occurs to him then, that Juliet seems to remain much more calm around his nakedness than Lassiter ever can.

" _Well_ ―" he starts before she continues, more intensely,

"Did you crawl out of the  _mouth_?"

Shawn pulls his trousers up and laughs. "I've never tried it that way, but that  _would_  be hilarious... But no, I... well, I couldn't really tell you the science of it. Maybe Gus could―"

"I'm an apothecary, Shawn, not a surgeon―"

"―But I always mostly transform with the skin still on, and then I just rip it off.  _Then_  as long as I'm still touching it, it can heal back together. I normally don't let that happen because then I have to rip it open again to transform back, but... I just held it for too long, I guess."

He explains this casually while he puts on the rest of his clothes, but realizes after a moment that, from the perspective of someone who hasn't gotten used to it over nearly half their life, that's likely a bit horrific.

He looks up again to see, based on Juliet's expression, that it certainly is.

She breaks into a sort of laugh a second later, however, and resumes examining the skin as she says,

"I guess that explains why you never seem to transform above water, huh? I mean, you did it the last time, but that was so fast I couldn't even see it properly..."

"I saw it once," Gus chimes in, finally drawing Juliet's attention back to him. "It was positively  _gruesome_."

"He proceeded to projectile-vomit," Shawn tells her, to Gus's chagrin. "Right onto me, actually. And  _that's_  why I don't transform above water."

"Except when he wants to be extra dramatic."

Juliet giggles at that.

By the time Shawn is dry and dressed, the sky is about as dark as it can possibly get for the night, and the moon has begun to noticeably lower. Gus's lantern is waning, too. Shawn begins climbing up the cliffside without words nor hesitation.

Once they're all back up on the grass, Juliet immediately,  _somehow_ , seems to read his mind.

"I can take the skin back to Carlton for you," she says, which briefly takes the air out of his lungs. "...You  _were_  having him keep it for you, weren't you?"

" _Oh_ , uh―" He tries to shake the surprise off as he takes the sealskin from Gus―who was planning to bring it to Lassiter tomorrow, but this is better―and hands it over to her. "Yeah. Sorry, it's just... I'm surprised that he told you."

She matches his odd expression with one of her own and heads in the opposite direction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Fear Dearg as Shawn mentions is a type of evil solitary fairy. It translates to Red Man, but that doesn’t sound nearly as cool in English, so I kept it in Irish. BTW, it’s the type of creature that Timothy Omundson played in Luck of the Irish, and it’s actually NOT just “an evil leprechaun.” It’s a different creature entirely; they both just happen to be solitary.
> 
> Honorable mentions from canon include: Seamus MacTiernan, the above mentioned Fear Dearg from Luck of the Irish, and Swaggerty, the mayor in the later seasons of Psych.
> 
> Also, if you’re interested on my scientific take on how selkie transformations work, see [this post](http://bassiter.tumblr.com/post/172941178072).


	8. Claiming pt.2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For reference, ‘Lughnasa’ is pronounced “Loo-nuh-sah.”

"So, why didn't you tell me that you were holding onto Shawn's sealskin?"

She asks that with one raised eyebrow and a smirk on her face, like it's some funny joke. She doesn't hold herself in an accusatory manner at all, either. But Carlton still feels a sort of terror from her gaze, and from the implications of her words, and  _especially_  from the sealskin that she just placed on his bed.

He's inclined to believe that her casual tone and stance are a trap, and that her true colors will spring up at any moment.

He  _then_  reminds himself that she hasn't the least authority over him, and so he simply stares back, saying nothing. Not moving or shifting an inch from his chair. And he  _intends_  to remain silent, but as Juliet plays along and only stares back expectantly, a question forms and  _burns_  until it gets the better of him.

"...Did he tell you that?"

Her smirk widens. "You had me retrieve your clothes the other day when we were swimming, remember? The skin was in your coat."

_Shit. Goddammit. I'm a fucking idiot._

Carlton's humiliation is surely plain on his face, then, as much as he quietly tries to quell it. The only thing he can do for himself is refuse to look at Juliet's reaction―but then,  _as_  he looks away,

"You're mistaken if you think I'd get any joy from ridiculing you, you know," she sighs. He snaps his head back up and she's already walking right out of his view and toward the kitchen. "And if you're going to say that you don't owe me anything, I know that. I just hoped I could hear the answer straight from your mouth, I guess... I  _like_  honesty, okay? So sue me! I don't think it's odd to want someone I'm living with  _who is also_   _the Sheriff of a town_  to own up to a lie when confronted with it! Don't get me wrong, I do understand why you didn't tell me before. You spent so long with only bad things to say about Shawn and other fae that you didn't want to ruin that image, or seem like you'd been influenced, or like you'd gone soft―"

"I  _haven't_  gone soft," Carlton snaps, almost desperately.

"I know you haven't!" Juliet says without missing a beat. Though she doesn't seem to notice that he said that mainly to reassure himself. Her gaze is down on something else. "I don't think anyone could  _become_  soft that quickly anyway, if you're soft at all you've obviously been that way for a while―"

" _O'Hara_..."

He just barely hears a chuckle from her. "It's sweet of you, is all I'm saying! And it's not like I didn't already know you were capable of doing sweet things."

"It isn't  _sweet_ , it's part of my job," he groans, and stands up to move the sealskin out of sight and into his coat. "Which is to protect my people whether I like them personally or not, and whether it be from each other, or the English, or... even  _curses_ , I suppose."

There is a small stretch of silence in the house, in which Carlton hopes that Juliet has given up.

But then she says,

"If it was only your job, shouldn't you have been perfectly fine with telling me?"

"...Okay, fine, you were right―I didn't want to ruin an image you had of me. Happy?"

"Mm, a little bit. But I am also curious. How long have you been keeping it, and why in―?"

" _I'm done talking about this, O'Hara._ " With that he readies himself for bed, and he hears another chuckle from her so he can assume that this is done―

And then it very abruptly occurs to him to wonder exactly what it  _is_  that Juliet's been busy with this whole time.

Rather than asking, he walks into the kitchen, silently, until he's beside her and can see what she's been... salting and wrapping, apparently.

"Huh. Did you buy those from someone?"

"Nope," she says, finally glancing up at him again. But only for a moment. "Shawn caught them tonight―when he was transformed. You know. With his teeth and everything. Hey, did you know that he actually has to  _rip_  the skin open to get out of it?"

Carlton immediately recalls the slew of questions that he asked Shawn about how the transformation worked and felt, about two months ago. He pauses until he remembers that Juliet  _is_  more or less aware of that time.

"I... did, actually..." And he's much more focused on the fish, now, anyway. "Um―how quickly did you say he caught these?"

"I didn't? But... it really couldn't have taken long, I don't think. I'm sure he has to eat a lot just to have the energy to transform... Why?"

He's too deep in his own head to respond, for a few seconds.

He decides that he'd rather not her (nor anyone else, for that matter) know his thought processes until he's got a full plan formed.

"Just curious," he lies. "Goodnight."

 

***

 

With Shawn, Gus, and McNab's help, word gets around town about Juliet's heroic chase. They spare certain details, of course, such as her being nearly naked at the time, as well as the reason why Lassiter himself was indisposed, but the message that  _matters_  gets well enough across if it wasn't already:

That Juliet O'Hara's presence is  _not_  to be taken lightly if you want to walk away from her in one piece.

Juliet herself refuses to give a description of the thief, meanwhile. She says that the humiliation and pain of being outran and tackled by a naked, unarmed woman, and not being able to keep what they stole, was punishment enough.

Shawn is inclined to agree, though he has a hard time believing that Lassiter does.

Then again, he has a very  _easy_  time believing that Juliet convinced him one way or another to simply let it slide.

He hasn't spent quite as much time staying in town as she has, as least not this year, but he can also tell that she's quickly climbed up the social ladder since she got here. Everyone knows Juliet, just as well if not more than everyone knows  _him_ , and damn near everyone  _likes_  her, too.

The only who seem not to are the very same people who don't take kindly to Shawn's brand of non-conformity, either.

...Which are mainly the English, whether living in An Daingean or just passing through. Especially the Burgesses.

But then, they don't really  _like_  anyone who aren't their own, do they? They only afford some more respect than others and keep each and every interaction under a veil of ulterior, often political motives. They're not in their positions because they have any interest in upholding laws or justice the way that Lassiter is, but rather in  _control_ , and in power.

At least one of them  _also_  doesn't take very kindly to all of this being told to his face after stopping Shawn without reason, it seems.

A total lack of any other townsfolk around to potentially back him up may also be a factor, now that he thinks about it... Maybe he should have thought it through a little more instead of just letting his mouth run as usual.

_Well, too late for that._

"That's big talk coming from such a...  _young_ , and slender man," the Burgess, whose name he never caught, says smoothly. He has backed Shawn up against a wall, by simple means of walking slowly forward and having a gun on his hip.

Still, Shawn hardly hesitates to scoff, nor to retort,

" _Slender?_  I hate to break it to you, but anyone with less than half your gut isn't automatically slender. Now, if you looked a little more closely, you'd see I've actually got  _quite_  some muscle packed on―"

He just starts to lift his leg up, to show him, before the Burgess scowls and closes even more space between them.

"If  _you_  looked more closely, boy, you'd see that you have no business speaking to me that way. You have no business at all even  _being_  in this town, when―why, you  _do_  no business at all! You have no family name, no property, no trade...  _No_ , the only difference between you and any other vagrant is that you've got a pretty face, and that that pretty face keeps those friends around. Except... huh, I don't see them anywhere right  _now_..."

"Oh, that's because they're doing that pilgrimage up the hill," Shawn manages to say with an unaffected, yet still very  _pretty_  face. Or at least he'd think so. "You know, which almost everyone else is also doing. For Reek Sunday. Which happens every year. But I won't begrudge you for not knowing that―you are an  _outsider_ , after all."

Shawn then gives the man the most pleasant smile he can muster, anticipating the worst. For a good moment the face in front of his remains locked in its furious expression, seemingly almost  _stuck_  that way as its mouth just barely moves to form the words,

"Boy, I ought to have you in―"

"Drimmer! What's going on here?"

Shawn melts into a puddle of relief at the sound of Lassiter's voice. Or he would, if the Burgess would give him room.

But he remains painfully close to Shawn even as he turns.

"Ah, Sheriff! Come to rescue your little friend?"

"Depends," Carlton says, making a point not to glance in Shawn's direction. "Are you the aggressor? Because then yes, by definition, it  _would_  be a rescue. If not, then tell me the name of his crime, and  _I_  will deal with him accordingly."

Drimmer doesn't answer right away, which already gives Carlton his answer.

"Hm. That's what I―"

"He was behaving  _suspiciously_ , Lassiter," he interrupts. "Which I've seen you stop folks for  _many_  a time. Unless you would like me to give him special treatment?"

"So I'm  _suspicious_  for not participating in something that's based in a religion that you all but criminalize in the first place?" asks Shawn, incredulous, and promptly bringing both sets of eyes on him. He glances repeatedly between them as he continues, "I don't understand― _how_  exactly do I win, here?"

"...Sounds like an explanation to me." Carlton reaches out for Shawn's arm, then looks back to Drimmer. "Unless you'd like me to arrest him for... what, being mean to you? I'm afraid I don't recall the penalty for hurt feelings..."

Once again, Drimmer pauses to glare. This time, between both of them. Carlton's grip on Shawn's arm tightens.

"The kid's got the kind of mouth on him that'll get him killed one day, you know," he spits. "If you want that to be on you, fine. Maybe he'll do me a favor and bring you down with him!"

A moment later, reluctant as he seems to do so, the Burgess throws his hands up and takes a step back. Another moment and Carlton is already halfway down the road, arm around Shawn's shoulders like a vice.

 

*

 

Even while nearly trapped against Lassiter's body, he finds room to twist around and give Drimmer a brief, cheery wave. He twists back to find Lassiter scowling.

"You're  _welcome_ , by the way."

"Oh, come on, it's not like you had anything else keeping you busy. I obviously knew you would show up!"

"Uh huh. Is that why you had to antagonize the one Burgess that really, truly  _despises_  me? Do you really love making things harder for me that much?"

"First of all, Lassie, I doubt he's the only one who despises you. No offense. But second of all, I didn't  _antagonize_  him. I just didn't feel like standing there and taking whatever bullshit he gave me. Is that a crime?"

"No, but that won't stop him or most of the other Burgesses from treating it like one," Carlton mutters, quickly glancing around to make sure they aren't being heard. The streets seem empty enough, now, that he's comfortable slowing down and letting his arm hang loose. "...He was right, you know. You need to be more careful with what you say to people who carry guns, and  _especially_  a direct line to the English throne."

"...Well." Shawn shrugs, then turns and arches his eyebrow. "So should you."

Carlton inhales to ready himself for a response, but it comes back out a laugh.  _That's fair,_  he thinks, sure that Shawn can tell without him saying so.

A few moments of silence pass, and it occurs to him that they've actually slowed not just to a comfortable pace, but a sort of leisurely one. One that, even if he ever liked to do so, would almost never be  _possible_  in town considering his responsibilities and the crowds that normally take up these streets.

Particularly considering the unwanted curiosity that would arise from him doing so with...  _anyone_ , really.

Carlton takes another sweeping glance around, sees no one, and then clears his throat.

"So. Why  _are_  you still in town? You and your friend Gus are practically inseparable―I'd have thought you'd want to join him and O'Hara up the mountain, Catholic or not... Unless that bet you have still isn't finished?"

"Oh―no, it  _definitely_  is," Shawn assures him, immediately feeling that wave of relief all over again. "I, uh... well, to be honest with you, Lassie..." He trails off, grabs the other man by the arm, stops walking, and puts on a serious face. "...I just  _really_  did not want to spend a whole day hiking."

A laugh that would likely be heard across town bubbles up in Carlton's chest, but he holds it back in favor of a short scoff before he picks their stroll back up.

"Wait, but you―how is it that you have the endurance to outrun me, or to swim and jump higher than any seal should be capable of, but do you can't do a simple hike?"

"I never said I  _couldn't_. I just really don't want to."

" _Ah_. So you're just lazy."

"I absolutely am! Not to mention that with the three of us alone for too long, one of us would inevitably wind up feeling left out and it would probably cycle between all of us, which would  _not_  be fun. Really, I'm doing them a favor."

"Mm. I think you're mostly just doing yourself a favor."

"Also absolutely true. Nevermind the fact that I probably could have gotten killed a few minutes ago, it's... pretty goddamn peaceful in town when you're one of the only people in it."  _Almost as peaceful as the ocean can be,_  but he would feel a bit embarrassed to say so. "Knowing you, though, it's probably one of the lower points of your job, huh?"

In a way, he isn't wrong. As Sheriff, it's Carlton's responsibility to keep the law regardless of any holy day. To protect  _all_  of An Daingean's citizens, not just the Irish and Catholic ones. And that is often  _more_  difficult on days when the English in town vastly outnumber everyone else.

It's been a few years since he was able to participate in Reek Sunday. While no one is technically  _stopping_  him, if he left town he'd be leaving behind the most vulnerable―the sick, the injured, the elderly―under authorities who might exploit them in his absence.

He would rather be thought of as impious than risk all that, quite frankly.

But he supposes Shawn likely means that he misses the lack of opportunities to dole out justice. Which he can't say he  _doesn't_ , either.

Or he wouldn't, if he hadn't already had the chance today. It's enough that he has to agree―

"No, it  _is_  pretty goddamn peaceful... Even with you hanging around." Which reminds him, before Shawn can say anything in defense, " _Are_  you Catholic, Spencer? I―obviously you're a selkie which makes you fae and... and by  _definition_  your very existence really isn't... within Catholic rules, but―well, you had to be raised with something. Or were you?"

It isn't a question Carlton makes a habit out of asking anyone. In fact, it's one of the rare few things that he considers wholly rude in almost all cases. But he wouldn't think social convention is entirely necessary when one party isn't human.

And yet he still stammered around the question, which Shawn finds hilarious.

"I'm pretty sure I did tell you before that I don't answer to any God―"

"You did."

" _But_... yes, my father was Catholic." They're both surprised at how easily he admitted that. For whatever reason, mentioning the man feels no heavier than mentioning the weather, at the moment. "An Irish-sympathizing guy with English parents who hadn't converted yet. So―"

He cuts himself off, hearing Lassiter exhale abruptly with a soft but unmistakable  _oh_.

"What?"

"It's nothing. It's just―funny, I guess. That describes my own father just as well."

Shawn's heart stops at that, but he knows better than to dwell on it. He turns his focus back onto the lifeless town around them.

"Huh. Well, anyway... maybe it's because he married a selkie, but he was never all that spiritual, or  _God-fearing_ , or the like. Then again Gus is like a brother to me and he is definitely both of those things, but, um. No, Henry just embodied the  _rules_ , you know? I can't say for sure if he actually had any kind of faith in anything but himself. But that's just about the only part of him that I agree with."

A single beat passes before Carlton opens his mouth.

"To be honest with you, I don't think I can consider myself all that devout, either."

Shawn promptly gives him a good-natured slap on the back. "Of course you can't! How devout  _could_  you be when you're friends with someone whose 'very existence isn't within Catholic rules?'"

With his own words used against him, he'd be a fool to disagree.

"...It  _would_  be a bit like being friends with a demon, wouldn't it."

Several beats of amused silence follow. They're nearly at the edge of town, with... now that Carlton thinks about it, no destination in mind. No particular goal for the day, either, other than to tend to his home and to routinely check up on a small handful of people for their own safety.

And... after that incident with Drimmer, it only makes sense that Shawn is now one of those people.

"Come on, I need lunch," he tells him abruptly and casually, pulling Shawn by the arm in the direction of his house.

" _Um_ ―" Shawn goes along with the pull, but stares Lassiter down with a severely cocked head until he looks over. "And you're... going to feed me? Force me to cook for you? Try out that  _spit-roasted selkie_  recipe that's been in your family for centuries?"

Carlton rolls his eyes. "The first thing, obviously. I guess I forgot to mention―you're sticking with me for the rest of the day whether you like it or not."

 

*

 

If there's one thing that always makes Reek Sunday worth powering through, whether or not he's got someone to spend it with, it's that Lughnasa is never more than a week to follow.

This year it is a full week, though, so Shawn gets impatient. He readily admits, when Gus asks about his antsiness, that the harvest festival was one of the main driving factors in his decision to cheat the tides and stay on land another month. The  _next_  biggest factor, however... he neglects to mention.

Gus insists that it's dumb to push his luck like that regardless. That Shawn "can pretend you don't abide by any universal laws all you want, but just because you have one foot in the magical realm and one foot out of it doesn't mean there aren't any forces above you.

"For all  _you_  know," he says, "whoever or whatever created selkies might eventually get tired of some rogue one bending the rules of the curse all the time."

"Don't be dramatic, Gus," Shawn sighs. "That's  _my_  job. And I really don't think I'm 'bending the rules' by swimming around in that gray area of my physical limits any more than  _you_  are by... I dunno, eating and sleeping the bare minimum it takes to survive?"

"Uh, I get  _far_  above the bare minimum, Shawn."

"I know  _you_  do―I'm talking about humans in general. You do it all the time! And a lot of you live with shit much worse than the deal I got."

"That's exactly why it's such a bad idea to be greedy about it! You're really not worried?"

He raises a good point, and Shawn can certainly see how a man with his sort of luck and upbringing would develop that fear. But still,

"No, I'm not. Because even if there  _is_  someone pulling the strings on my fate in particular, I'd like to think they were fair and just. Do you really think that it would be fair to punish me for wanting to attend one of the most important and most  _ancient_  holidays of the year?"

With that, Gus concedes. Although―considering that he merely puts up a defeated look rather than doing that thing where he pretends that he agreed with Shawn's "real" point all along, he's clearly still very nervous.

...It can't  _hurt_  to gather some offerings for when Lughnasa comes, Shawn supposes. Just to be on the safe side.

 

***

 

Save for earlier this year at Beltane, the last time that Carlton was able to personally enjoy any community festivities was before he held the position of Sheriff. Long before he met Victoria, even. He's had simply too much unilateral responsibility, and nothing to motivate him to make an ass of himself in front of the people who are supposed to look up to him.

But  _as_  Sheriff, stoic as he paints himself, he'd be stupid not to  _appreciate_  them. Anything that can give his town or any other something to look forward to, anything that can be a light in a dark time... is a necessity for peace, the way he sees it.

And, of course, Lughnasa has  _always_  been his favorite.

Even if he has time for very little other than supervising and having a small portion of the feast, these days, standing in the midst of it all never fails to send him back to his childhood. To the novelty of so  _much_  food all in one place from the harvest, and the delight and wonderment he used to have at the sight of all the men competing in sports, and just... the rare day of  _feeling_  so carefree...

He can't even recall a Lughnasa that his mother or father ever made sour, like they did with so many other days that are now seared into his upbringing. If  _that_  isn't a miracle, Carlton doesn't know what is.

Meanwhile he never pays it much mind, but with a bit of thought he easily realizes that  _for_  those reasons, his spirits do tend to be up at this time of year. Because of that, he's far less irritable during the festivities than he'd be at others―and possibly because of  _that_ , even those likelier to cause scenes are less hostile with him.

That bit of thought is also helped along by a suggestion from Juliet, when he mentions it. But surely he  _could_  have realized it on his own.

Carlton needs no prompting, today, to adorn himself with flowers before leaving his home. Still not quite so many as most others will, but he steps in front of his mirror and rummages through the basket that Juliet collected with no thoughts against it―with almost no thoughts at all, truly. He's practically outside of himself but for noting that the purple of autumn flowers suit him  _much_  better than the yellow of May, and that, in a way, these few adornments really  _do_ brighten up his whole appearance, especially with his beard freshly trimmed and his shirt just slightly looser than he normally allows―

"You look really nice!" Juliet says, startling him just enough that he feels suddenly more present―that he's ironically no longer absorbed with  _how he looks_. He has to feel grateful for her helping him out of whatever that was.

Then it occurs to him that when she said that, she sounded a little surprised.

"What are you talking about?" he huffs, returning his attention to the mirror to make finishing touches. "I make a point of looking professional every day."

She gives him a look, facing the mirror and simply letting it reflect back to him, like what she's thinking should be obvious. Carlton is really getting tired of those.

"Well, you look  _more_  than professional, which you usually don't. You just look like... like instead of dressing for everyone, for once you're dressing for yourself!"

"...Oh." As she beams up at him with her hands on her hips, he manages only a sheepish smile in return. "Right. For myself."

"I like it. You know―I always have liked Lughnasa, but it just might have to become my favorite too if it makes you like  _this_  every year."

He barks a laugh in spite of himself. "Let's not get our hopes up, now."

 

*

 

Perhaps it's only his nostalgia, but there's a sort of blanket of peace over even the vast crowds through and around An Daingean.

There are carts carrying supplies in a procession that would seem like  _the Queen_  passing through on any other day, and every able-bodied man in town including himself hauling logs or stones out of those carts onto the field, and torches being hurriedly set up at every turn, and the women and children of every Irish family carrying bushels so high their faces are hidden... and yet.

...It could be the mild weather that's common this time of year, Carlton supposes. Or just his entire town working together, which  _is_  a relatively rare... though annual and wholly expected sight.

Or maybe it's really just himself. Maybe even aside from his childhood memories.

Right in the middle of a haul, stone still in his arms, he stops. A pair of men down the field catch his gaze―not actually facing him but, even without the Apothecary by his side, Carlton would recognize that dark brown mane and its braids anywhere.

The selkie's hair seems to have grown back to the length it was before Beltane, he can't help but notice even from here.

It takes him just slightly longer to notice his fingers threatening to break with the weight of this stone.

With unprecedented haste, Carlton rushes to where all the other stones have been dropped, does the same, and hardly even glances at the other men let alone gives them goodbyes before leaving the post. He shouldn't  _have_  to, of course―he's the goddamn Sheriff and he has  _bigger_  things to worry about.

 

*

 

"Oh, no, I am absolutely barring you from competing in  _any_  of the sports, tonight."

"What? Why?"

" _Why?_ ―because first of all, you have an unfair advantage. Second of all, I do not trust you not to use your unfair advantage to its fullest extent. And third of all, if you were to win every single challenge by such a wide margin despite not being nearly the largest man here, especially _in front_  of nearly the whole damn town, that would be the final straw even for those who  _don't_  already suspect something about you. You ever deal with a witch hunt before, Spencer?"

As a matter of fact, he has... but he never returned to that town again, so Shawn doesn't mention it.

"Alright, Lassie, I get it. But... can't I still do hurling, at least? I feel like it would be some kind of treason for you to keep me from something so crucial to Lughnasa in the first place."

"Winning in hurling does have a lot more to do with precision and teamwork than sheer strength," Gus chimes in. Juliet nods with him. "And Shawn isn't even good at those."

"Hey―!"

"Now that, I'd love to see," Carlton says without skipping a beat, smirking at Shawn's pout.

It's rare that even a small group of people are all joking at  _his_  expense. But that doesn't make him any less embarrassed when it does happen, or any less desperate to hide it.

Luckily there are a whole host of things about the man right in front of him that he's been  _dying_  to change the subject to, anyway.

"But hey― _look at you_!" is what he says, making his deflection quite obvious, but―

Carlton finds himself not at all annoyed, or even surprised, that Shawn would choose to focus on the changes he made for Lughnasa. He instead finds himself struggling not to blush too fiercely as Shawn gestures at each and every one of those changes with a grin on his own face, and particularly as Shawn reaches out and grazes his chest hair... which he does  _much_  more briefly than last time.

...Because of all the people surrounding them now, surely.

Oddly, though, Juliet and Gus aren't part of that immediate crowd anymore. It seems they've walked away without either Carlton or even Shawn noticing.

"...Huh," the latter says, glancing around for them. "You think they left to test whether or not we were too distracted to realize?"

Carlton clears his throat and, struck with a sudden wave of shame, takes that as his cue to step away and find something relevant to his actual  _job_  to do.

After bidding Shawn a muttered  _goodbye for now_ , that is.

 

*

 

The very first of every individual crop is set aside for God, first and foremost. Not everyone is even aware of the old deities anymore, and most of those who  _are_  believe them to only be stories at best, to be demons at worst―but Carlton knows the truth.

And now that he knows it, he feels quite odd doing this. Odder than he feels attending Mass while in the very same day cavorting around with a selkie.

Possibly because this is the first time that he's felt this much doubt about  _where_  the sacrificed crops are actually going. He watches Shawn throw a basketful of fish into the pile before it's buried, and he sees the strange looks some other townsfolk give him, and he can only think―he  _knows_ , truly, that Shawn must have some insight on the roots of these traditions that the rest of them do not.

But it wouldn't be wise to ask him in the middle of the celebration, he doesn't think. Rather, he should just stick to supervising and keeping order.

He  _should_ , but he and the selkie and their respective housemates wind up at each other's sides several times throughout the evening. Carlton doesn't  _believe_  that he's doing it on purpose―

Other than, of course, watching with genuine and open delight while Shawn proves to be no better than average (if even that) while hurling, a lack of skill he's yet to witness from him in much of anything else... and which he  _somehow_  feels satisfied only observing, without feeling a need to comment on it afterward.

...Though as he walks away, Shawn chases after  _him_  to gloat about how he supposedly "proved him and Gus wrong."

Maybe it's Shawn who's doing it on purpose, then, just like he likes to follow him around and bother him any other day... But Carlton allows it regardless, doesn't he? That much he can admit to himself, especially while he laughs through mouthfuls of food at the stories that Shawn and Gus tell of each other―

 

_"...so obviously I_ ran _from the huge omen of death in the woods, while Shawn ran toward it for some unholy reason, which is everything you need to know about him―"_

_"Since when is wanting to_ befriend _an animal so 'unholy'?_ Also _, Lassie, he's leaving out the part where it turned out to be a completely normal dog covered in mud. Oh! And don't forget how you once screamed like a banshee just because a frog jumped out at you."_

_"I was_ five _and it was_ dark _, Shawn!"_

 

―and while he continues to watch raptly at each game or craft that Shawn runs off to participate in, though he can at least excuse  _that_  with how fun Shawn is to watch―

 

" _What_ is _his obsession with doing flips?" he mutters, doing nothing to hide his growing awe._

" _It gets him attention," Gus mutters back. "...And it's just about the only coordinated thing he_ can _do that wouldn't get him clocked as not being human."_

" _Hm."_

 

―and while he's even invested in the things that Shawn  _won't_  participate in―

 

_"Aren't selkies supposed to be great at singing?"_

_Shawn rolls his eyes and throws his hands up. "Some sailors hear a few selkies singing_ one _time and suddenly_ all _of us are supposed to have beautiful voices. It's human bias, is all it is!"_

_"Don't let him fool you," Gus whispers directly into Carlton's ear, to his deep surprise, "he does have a great voice. He just doesn't like to use it in public. It embarrasses him."_

 

...and while he feels a dull ache every time that Shawn runs off entirely. Or even when  _he_  has to run off and attend to a situation. Worst of all, even Juliet being by his side does nothing to ease that ache.

Though it certainly doesn't get any better when  _she_  leaves it, too.

Carlton does his best to ignore it, which  _should_  be easy with the new autumn air to smother it, but... but it feels as though he's been trying to ignore whatever this is for much longer than just tonight. As though, in spite of his earlier mood, tonight in fact marks the last dregs of his energy to do so.

He especially cannot ignore the sharp ache that comes when he notices Juliet and Gus step-dancing together―out of jealousy that they're confident enough to do that, he supposes. That they're skilled enough to draw a crowd, and that they're clearly enjoying themselves so much, and that they can be, more or less,  _public_  about it...

And the same sort continue to come, though on a smaller scale, as he begins to notice more and more young couples, and as he's gently reminded of the one part of Lughnasa he's  _never_  liked―

And then as he's a bit more roughly reminded, with the sight of Shawn talking animatedly to a small group of women.

With the affection on each of their faces plain as day.

With the grin on Shawn's face clearly warm to match.

All the warmth that's grown in  _him_  this evening turns suddenly to cold, so abrupt and harsh that Carlton would be mad to convince himself he didn't feel it. He cannot remember the last time he felt this way, nor if he has  _ever_  felt this way. He can draw up no memories to compare to the vice-like constriction that there is on his throat, nor the erratic beat that his heart has chosen to take, nor the scream of each and every one of his bones simultaneously to remain still and to flee.

He only knows, in this moment, that he is facing a  _terrible_  problem that needs to be fixed.

 

*

 

Shawn's attention was on him from the moment he took his coat off― _and folded it up and handed it to Juliet, it looks like._

He watched, curious, as Lassiter pushed through a crowd and marched up to the line of men waiting for their turn to prove their strengths at stone-throwing, and then as Lassiter pushed his way to the front of that, and―with dawning awe―as he proceeded to haul a boulder up and over his shoulder.

And it is still utterly jarring to hear the man shout, his physical shake evident yet without a  _shred_  of uncertainty,

"HEY,  _SHAWN!_ "

Their eyes meet across the field, and Shawn unthinkingly holds his breath while Lassiter shouts again, this time merely with the effort of his entire upper body winding back―

The stone, wide as his own torso and likely at least half his weight, soars several feet further than any of the others have before it even lands. When it does there is an instant, collective cheer among the spectators―well deserved,  _obviously_ , but... Shawn only just then gets his breath back.

His confusion is shoved aside in favor of intense awe as he locks eyes with Lassiter again, who looks similarly breathless and... even a bit crazed.

And he doesn't seem to be looking at anyone but Shawn, either.

 

***

 

In retrospect, Carlton's strength isn't quite what it used to be.

Whatever it is that allowed him to push past any resistance from his body, to actually throw that goddamn rock as hard and as far as he did... he knows that he could not replicate it now. He knows, deep in every soft scream of his muscles, that that was a one-time gift. Even as he tries to merely  _remember_  how it felt to have that rush through him, it remains just out of his mental grasp.

Although, that may be due to the disproportionate amount of energy it's taking him just to get out of bed.

_God._

He still does, because he  _has_  to, no matter how much Juliet urges him to get more rest―no matter how difficult it is to hide his pain from her or anyone else. He refuses to slack off from his post, and he refuses even to see the Apothecary about it, because most of all, he  _refuses_  to say a goddamn word about what he did to cause this.

What Carlton does do, at least, is make an effort to stretch those muscles when he has the time―when no one else is around to see his shame. However, as the week progresses, he has to wonder... if that shame is seeping into every pore of his body and tearing him apart, somehow. Because his pain only seems to worsen.

And Juliet notices that without him saying so, which only deepens his shame and reinforces his refusal to admit anything.

"It's just how muscles  _work_ , O'Hara. They have to hurt before they get stronger. I can't be the only one who's sore..."

She doesn't look at all convinced by that. Possibly because of the groan he lets out with just the turn of his neck.

"You  _weren't_ ," she says, "but it's been days. I think you really hurt yourself, and I don't think you're helping  _anyone_  by continuing to patrol around town when all that's doing is hurting you more, and especially not when you're not even in a condition to do your job right!"

"Oh, so you're a medical expert now, are you?" he grumbles as he starts to walk away. His legs, at least, are perfectly fine. "I didn't know that just snogging an Apothecary made you qualified."

Carlton hears an immediate pause in her footsteps, in which he's sure even without looking that Juliet has gone red. But she soon continues to follow him, and picks up the pace so that she stops right in his path, and folds her arms. She's got a smile that almost scares him.

"It doesn't, but you know damn well that I don't need to be an expert to know that you're full of shit, Carlton."  _Oh._  "What are you going to do when the next fight breaks out? You can't even draw your sword!"

"Please, O'Hara, I can  _draw my sword_ ―"

"Then do it. Right now."

He freezes. His eyes remain unblinkingly on hers.

"Go on, draw it!"

His right arm can move barely an inch forward before his eyes threaten to water.

"...I don't have to do what you tell me," he says, with the tiniest of shrugs. Even so, a sharp noise escapes his throat.

Juliet looks incredibly pleased with herself, but not for too long before her expression is sympathetic, again.

"If you won't drag your ass to the apothecary for something to fix this, then I will. Whether you like it or  _not_."

She marches off in that direction before he has a chance to respond.

 

*

 

"Lassie, I know you're in there! I saw you look through the window! ...If you think I'll walk away just because you've been ignoring me for a minute, you're dead wrong. You should know by now how determined I can get when  _bothering someone_  is at stake―"

The door swings open. Lassiter is scowling on the other side with his foot on the door.

"Wow. I didn't think it would work that quickly."

"I'm trying to get through my lunch, Spencer. What do you want?"

"It's not about what I want, Lassie―it's about what you  _need_ ," Shawn says, looking him up and down, and reaching out to take a light hold of his arm. He'd often be pushing past the man and into his house about now, but... damn, he thinks he might hurt him if he did. "...I knew you must have been sore, but shit, Lass, I wouldn't have realized how bad it was if Jules didn't tell me."

The look on Shawn's face makes Carlton want to kick the door in it. It's not even quite  _pity_ , but he just...  _cannot_  stand to see any sympathy from him, right now.

At the same time, he doesn't even try to move away from Shawn's touch.

"So she sent you here, huh?" he says through near gritted teeth, and with averted eyes. "Makes sense. You're the one with powers, likely a lot better than whatever stupid  _plants_  or whatever else your friend has― _you know what?_  Fine. I don't care. Put whatever fucking selkie magic you got on me, I feel like I'm on fire, just... go ahead and do it,  _please_."

With his abrupt change of heart he sticks his arms out as far as they'll comfortably go, waiting for the relief, but―

"I can't."

His gaze snaps right back to Shawn's face. "The hell you mean you can't? What did you come here for?"

"I mean―I can't do it  _here_ ," Shawn tells him. "It's... you know how I said that my skin is attached to my soul? Well, my ability to heal comes from both of those things. And you've got a pretty serious problem, my friend, so, um. You're going to want me where the power of those things, and that  _ability_ , are all at their highest."

 

*

 

Shawn all but drags him to the shore, in spite of everything. Carlton may very well only follow because it's easier than resisting the grip and pull on his arm―though once he makes it down the cliffside, arms and shoulders throbbing twice as bad as before, it becomes difficult to rationalize it that way.

He is desperate to feel  _any_  relief, is the truth of it. His reputation and his shame be damned, he sees no reason not to embrace that fact once he's already undressed and in the water and has nothing left to lose.

"Are you sure this is safe?" he thinks to ask, just as he steps in.

"Well, it's been a while since I've healed someone like this, but―"

"Safe for  _you_ , I mean."

_Oh._  Shawn gives him a brief, lopsided smile. "As long as you keep holding onto the skin, I'll be fine. Don't worry about it."

Just to be cautious, though, Shawn only walks out until the water is at his navel, and he positions himself with his back to a rock. This way he's at a disadvantage, in case temptation does take over. He tries not to think of what Gus told him about pushing his luck.

He tries especially hard not to think about his lack of experience doing this sort of thing, either.

"Alright, just... stand right there, and keep a tight hold on my skin. The more of it that's touching you the better. Maybe, uh... yeah, drape it over like that, make sure part of it is touching the water, too―don't worry about stretching it too much or holding it too hard. It'll heal just the same."

Carlton begins to nod, having forgotten about the pain that would follow.

"I get it," he groans, just barely louder than the waves. "Just get it over with."

Shawn promptly takes a deep breath and puts his hands on either side of Lassiter's neck―the center of his pain, as far as he can tell. He's been feeling an echo of it from the man wearing his sealskin alone, and now, that echo is amplified tenfold.

To Carlton, the warmth and gentleness of Shawn's touch already offers a slight relief. After just a few more seconds, however, as Shawn closes his eyes and furrows his brow... by  _God_ , it drains from him so quickly, and so unlike any treatment for pain he's ever taken before, that a gasp rips from him before he can even comprehend it.

" _Oh_ ―my... you―"

"Why, Lassie, you act like you've never been healed by a selkie before," Shawn grins, looking both smug and a bit tired. "I'm just getting started."

For a moment he doesn't understand what Shawn means by that―and then it abruptly becomes clear to him how much pain he's truly been in, and how accustomed he's grown to it. He's forgotten, in only a few days, that comfort is  _more_  than being able to turn his head without trouble, or even having a full range of movement in his arms... And each second that passes as Shawn continues to take it from him is practically one of ecstasy.

And then it stops. Carlton feels Shawn's hands slide off of his neck, and with that he lets out a groan―of  _satisfaction_ , this time, as he rolls his joints like he almost forgot was possible, and as his lips stretch ever outward, and as he opens his eyes.

"Holy shit, if you've been able to do  _that_  all this time―"

He stops when he sees the state that Shawn is in.

The selkie is leaning back against the rock, his brow still furrowed, his chest heaving, and his face a significant degree paler. He doesn't even acknowledge Carlton staring until several seconds later.

"...You're welcome, by the way."

"What did you do?"

"Uh. I healed you? A little more than halfway, to be exact. Past that would have been, ah... counterproductive."

Carlton frowns, and takes a moment to scrutinize him. Then, on a whim, he reaches forward and tugs lightly on Shawn's arm―which makes him wince.

"What the hell did you do?" he asks again, quieter, yet with more desperation coming through.

Shawn scrutinizes him right back. He really thought it was obvious.

"I took your pain, Lassie. That's how healing works. At least―" he pauses to inhale sharply. "...At least on this scale. The pain has to go  _somewhere_."

The smile on Shawn's face, then, makes Carlton feel sick.

"Why the hell would you do that? Put it back!"

"Put it  _back_?" Shawn laughs―not because anything about that is funny, but rather that he can't believe that Lassiter would want that, after the misery he was in. "Even if I  _wanted_ to do that... I'm afraid it's a one-way ticket, Lassie. Now, don't you have a job you should be getting back to?"

" _Shawn_ , why―" He moves to take hold of both of Shawn's arms, an end of the sealskin still bunched in each hand―"No, why the fuck would you  _do_  something like that?"

Luckily, it seems, Shawn is too exhausted to feel much of an urge to rip the skin from the other man's hands. But that's the only lucky thing about it.

"It seemed pretty fair to me," he finally says. "When it's partly my fault you went and hurt yourself so badly in the first place... I mean, I'd have taken more if I thought it was more my fault, but..."

He trails off when he sees the way Lassiter is staring back at him.

Carlton's heart is beating like he's just been woken up from a nightmare.

"...How would you know that?"

Shawn blinks. "Well, first of all, before you threw the rock you yelled for me, specifically. Unless there's another Shawn that you know."

_Damn it, Carlton, you―_

"And... I could tell that you were angry before you took your coat and my skin off." He wasn't planning on mentioning it before, and for good reason, considering the sort of shock that dawns on Lassiter's face. But it's only fair, he thinks. "I could only assume it let back to something about your wife, which I―"

"Wait." Carlton would laugh if only all the air hadn't just left his lungs. Instead he shakes his head to make sure he heard that right. And he finds his heartbeat pounding in that jarring way again. "You thought...  _that_  was why I was angry?"

Shawn's own heart picks up a pace to match. All he can do is frown more deeply, and part his lips just so in confusion.

"Describe the emotion you felt from me," Carlton orders him, so swiftly that the words hardly feel like they've come from his own mouth.

"Um―" Shawn closes his eyes for a brief moment and does his best to remember. "It was just... a very  _deep_  rush of anger."

Lassiter's eyebrows raise expectantly.

"And... I guess, a kind of...  _yearning_ , too? Or something like that. Because I was in the middle of just explaining to someone how I do a backflip and out of nowhere I felt like I'd  _lost_  something, but... That's why I thought it must have been about your wife, and about me ruining that, and that maybe you needed to go blow off some steam...?"

Shawn trails off again. This time he sees a distinct shine in the other man's eyes. _Oh._

Deathly quiet, and with a shake in his voice, he continues,

"You weren't... yearning for  _Victoria_ , were you?"

All at once, Carlton's chest burns as deeply as it did before he was healed, and his lungs refuse to take in more air, and his eyes threaten to spill over, and his heart feels as though it may burst right through the bone.

As much as he has tried to ignore this himself―to hide it, to  _lock it all away_ , even, he simply cannot believe that Shawn needs to  _ask_.

_Could you not feel it for the rest of Lughnasa?_  he wants to demand of him.  _Could you feel nothing from me on Reek Sunday, while I let you in my home―while I ate with you, and exchanged stories with you, and shared my most prized possessions with you?_

_Couldn't you tell the moment I jumped in the water for you?_

"I was fucking _jealous_ , Shawn," is what he does say―what he chokes out through the swelling in his throat, and through a mirthless laugh and a few burning tears as his eyes clench shut, because it's the only confession that is not lodged far too deep to reach―

And with it, he makes room to feel utterly, properly terrified.

For precisely one more second he cannot dare open his eyes, for fear of seeing an expression of disgust, or anger, or horror, or worst of all  _pity_...

And then he feels a hand slide onto his neck, again.

"Lassie..."

Shawn's voice rings as soft as his hand feels. They both seem to draw the heat from him. Slowly, Carlton opens his eyes to find not only an expression of undeniable relief across from his own, but―

He sees the longing that he saw on the day that they swam together―and held each other, in much deeper waters than this.

He sees the fondness that he saw on the night that he nearly made him give up a month of humanity but convinced him to stay all the same.

He sees the implicit trust that he saw from a man with his soul in his hands, pushing into Carlton's own.

He sees the smarmy thief who couldn't even fix a damn fence.

He sees the angel who saved him from a useless death.

And Shawn sees a man whom he never could have  _hoped_  might feel the same.

"Lassie...," he starts again, finding his voice oddly calm, "you should know that my sealskin isn't exactly a direct line of everything you feel to me, and things get lost in translation, and... emotions are very complicated things and I would just have  _never_  wanted to do something that you didn't―"

Feeling as though he truly may burst if he waits any longer, Carlton kisses him. He presses lips to lips and he breathes Shawn in and he feels something inside of him break in the only good way that  _anything_  has ever been broken, and―

It isn't until Shawn's hands are gripping his face that he realizes,

" _Fuck_ ―am I hurting you?"

The truth is, the pain he took into himself has already begun to heal away, likely due to his sealskin clamped tightly against him in Lassiter's hands. But Shawn could not  _possibly_  pause to explain that, now.

"I'm  _fine_."

It leaves him like a sob, and Carlton returns it when Shawn pulls him back in. Because he cannot  _count_ the times that this has crossed his mind―because he has  _feared_  it almost every time that it did, because he has  _wanted_  this so deeply and for much longer than he is willing to admit...

Because he cannot put his bare hands on Shawn's face or in his hair like he wants so badly to, like Shawn's hands are on him, without forfeiting the sealskin.

But he does with what he can, and he clutches the sealskin almost painfully tight, and he kisses him again and again. He holds Shawn close and he feels Shawn's heartbeat against his own and Shawn's  _soul_  taut against his back, and he squeezes out a few tears and he indulges himself, like he has not done in a  _long_  time, in Shawn's lips and Shawn's heat.

Carlton almost forgets where they even are, until Shawn moves one hand between them and under the water.

His eyes shoot open shortly after he gasps, immediately finding the deep red flush across Shawn's face and the want in his gaze.

"...Lassie, have you ever touched yourself while wearing my skin?" he asks, breath coming out heavy.

Carlton feels a sort of shame before he answers, but not a whole rush of it, this time. It merely dances across his tongue before he admits, more readily than he could have imagined he'd be,

"Once. I didn't mean to―I forgot I still had it on, and... by the time I realized it was too late, but―"

"I think I felt it." Shawn arches closer and beams, and nods quickly just to assure him further. "...I'd assumed that it was probably an accident, but... it was special, wasn't it? Tell me you could feel me right back."

"I think I..." Carlton can barely hear himself over his own heartbeat, but that and his growing smile and his tiny, slow nods are enough for Shawn―

―whose hand comes to wrap around both of them, gently as he can.

He says nothing, but stares up at Lassiter with a question glistening in his eyes.

And Carlton gasps again, and pauses as he stares back―and he hears a voice that has been with him for much of his life, telling him that he is depraved. But that voice fills him with no shame, now, nor guilt, nor the slightest desire to stop. That voice is more distant from him than it has  _ever_  been.

Carlton nods and, as he feels Shawn's hand squeeze him tighter and the other pull once again at the back of his neck, shoots forward to  _finally_  kiss him again. To moan into his mouth and to swallow Shawn's own.

If this makes him  _depraved_ , he thinks, then he will gladly dive into the deepest pool of depravity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3 <3 <3
> 
> Honorable mention for this chapter is Drimmer, aka the dude from Lassie Did a Bad, Bad Thing.
> 
> Reek Sunday, as you probably gathered, is a Catholic holy day of pilgrimage that most likely originated from pre-Catholic Ireland’s customs for Lughnasadh, which involved taking a pilgrimage up a mountain or hill to pay tribute to Celtic deities. Most notably the god Lugh, from whom the celebration of Lughnasadh originated.


	9. Dispute

"Wow. I don't think I've ever heard you singing before, Carlton."

He hears the words, and he sees the woman who spoke them staring at him with unmistakable surprise and awe, but neither quite reach him. At least not well enough to make him stop in the middle of a verse or pause in dressing himself.

He may have kept going after the verse and neglected to respond to her altogether, too, if not for her continuing,

"Shawn really healed you  _that_  well, did he?"

Carlton stops abruptly, nearly choking on the lyrics. The blood rises quickly to his face, which he tries to hide by turning away.

"...He did," he tells her. "I suppose I never thanked you properly last night... I'll honestly say now that I felt like death, and yet I don't think I'd have gone to him of my own will. So...  _truly_ —"

"Hey." Juliet puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes it. He looks over and finds her smiling warmly. "I'm just glad you're feeling so much better. I really don't think I've  _ever_  seen you so happy..."

With that she lets out a light laugh and walks off to attend to the garden, at which Carlton cannot help but smile with similar warmth to himself. Starting softly, he resumes his song.

And as soon as he hears the back door shut, he allows himself to abandon his buttons and instead reach up to his neck where it meets his shoulder, as well as right behind his ear, to feel those tender spots that Shawn left on him. His singing pauses once more just as his heartbeat and his breath does.

But he only allows it to be brief, so that he doesn't work himself up too much to function comfortably. After just a few seconds he clears his throat, and pulls his collar tighter over those more obvious spots, and tries very hard to think of mundane things while he makes the final adjustments to his clothes for the morning.

Still, he walks out the front door with a deep warmth in his chest and a song on his tongue.

 

*

 

It's lucky that Shawn is already—and  _has been_  for nearly all of his life—very much the type to be found staring into empty space, and to have bursts of emotion that don't fit with the situation at hand. Otherwise Gus might be onto him.

_Objectively_  it is very lucky, and Shawn truly does not think he could even  _begin_  to have this conversation... And yet, he can't help but also be a bit annoyed that his closest friend in the world doesn't seem to have noticed at all. Does Gus simply not care to pay attention to him anymore? Or has he always paid this little attention?

_Or am I just especially good at hiding it,_  Shawn bites back at his worries, which he  _knows_  are stupid... but he just can't stop himself from having them.

They in fact overcome him so well that, even without  _any_  overt curiosity from Gus regarding his latest bout of losing himself in his thoughts, he comes out of it asking,

"Hey, Gus... what would you say is an acceptable amount of time to take to court someone?"

The regret and panic seep in only after Gus turns away from his shelves, raises an eyebrow, and starts toward him.

"Why do you ask?"

Shawn straightens up, and his heartbeat pauses, and then—

"Because don't you think that you and Juliet are taking it a little too slow?" he thinks to ask. It  _is_ something he's been wondering, really.

And Gus no longer looks curious, but instead incredibly embarrassed. If his skin wasn't so dark, Shawn is sure he would see an intense flush on his face, considering the familiar way his whole body goes stiff and his lips tighten, and how much he proceeds to blink and look away and look  _back_  before finally giving a nervous laugh, and saying,

"Uh... just because  _you_  almost never stick around more than a night—or  _maybe_  a month around a girl,  _Shawn_ , that doesn't mean it's weird to actually spend a few months making a  _real_  effort."

Gus then huffs and stands up straight, and turns back toward his shelves of medicine for a split second—but then appears to change his mind as he turns to face Shawn once more:

"Oh, and trust me, you do  _not_  know exactly how 'slow' we're 'taking it.'"

Any other time and Shawn would be  _immediately_  latching onto that, begging for details, demanding that his friend elaborate, and refusing to let go of the matter until all the information was out in the open. But not only would that open the door for Gus to ask him very similar questions that he is  _terrified_  to hear...

He finds himself too distracted to even want to ask, from Gus's initial accusation alone. Though... it isn't quite an  _accusation_  when it's completely right, is it?

_...I really do almost_ never _stick around longer than a single night, do I,_ Shawn thinks.

So many years, so many cycles of the moon... and  _so_  many nights have seen him in the throes of passion with someone whose name he barely remembers now—if he even  _got_  their name at the time. He has walked onto so many shores, of so many countries, and always so easily found  _someone_  in the nearest town who would find him charming if not  _enchanting_ , who would grant him shelter for free, who might even have already had their sights set beneath his belt...

A very small handful of those foreign places have ever given him a reason to stay longer than the one full moon. A yet smaller handful of those reasons have indeed been others whose affection he  _did_ have to work for—who were all men, now that he thinks about it, and whom he cannot deny have  _always_ been the most fun—

And none of whom, still, were anything quite like this.  _This_... thing, with Lassiter, has been so much more than anyone and everyonebefore it.

The last time Shawn stayed in any one place for so long was before he first left An Daingean.

The last time Shawn even  _knew_  someone for so long, while holding those kind of feelings, before consummating it... Well. He can't recall if that's  _ever_  actually happened, now.

God,  _now_... After years of lovers who for the most part lasted a single night, and of flirtations just for the sake of flirtations, and of satisfaction making itself more and more of a challenge to reach but never straying  _too_  far, of Shawn simply feeling his feelings and allowing them to mean nothing for longer than he felt them, of Shawn being  _fine_  with that... Here he now is.

Here he is, unable to stop thinking about that afternoon several days later. Here he is with the scene replaying in his head as casually as he breathes, filling him with a desperation to relive it. Here he is, having gone and snuck even more kisses from Lassiter every day since, and having  _deeply_  delighted in each one, and not even  _close_  to having his fill of them.

_Here_  Shawn is, sitting by the apothecary window and staring in the vague direction of Lassiter's home, simmering in an absolutely insane ache to actually go and...  _talk_ about what all of this means for them.

At the same time, of course, he finds  _that_  only slightly less terrifying than confessing all of this to Gus. Did he not  _expect_  to want more than simple gratification, though? Can he possibly convince himself of otherwise, after what he's done for the man? ...Would he  _prefer_  not to feel this way, even?

He knows, at least, that he could not bring himself to wish for something like that. It does, truly, feel wonderful and beautiful and  _refreshing_  as hell to have a reason to feel so deeply and openly.

It just also scares the hell out of him, as would anything else that Shawn completely lacks experience in.

Minutes later, Gus still has his back turned while he sorts through his shelves. Still embarrassed, probably. Shawn remembers what he initially asked him and feels another pulse of that ache to go ask Lassiter some very similar questions.

Though... underneath it, Shawn thinks, is an ache just to see him.

_That_ , he can take care of without any fear.

" _Well_ ," he says abruptly, standing up and drawing Gus's attention, "I am very bored, so while  _you_  finish up your alphabetizing or whatever it is you're doing—"

"Fixing labels."

"Sure. In the meantime, I'll be... somewhere in town. Not sure yet. Likely bothering Lassie, wherever he is."

He just barely notices the strange frown that Gus shoots him before he walks out the door. All he's thinking of, in the moment, is how he hopes that he'll have the chance to follow Lassie somewhere private and kiss him for the second time today.

 

*

 

"Why didn't you just  _say_  that you needed fish? Did you really think I wouldn't have helped you, before?"

"Well,  _no_ , it's not that—"

"Did you just forget that I spent most of any given month as a creature that's literally  _built_  for catching fish?"

Carlton wouldn't know how to explain it, particularly not with Juliet and the Apothecary here as well. The simplest and truest answer he can even think of, as for why he waited until now to ask this of Shawn, is that lately he has been too distracted by more...  _emotion_ -based things.

"You should realize by now that I don't enjoy asking for help as a rule," is what he tells him, struggling to appear casual for the others' sake. "And... I've had this idea shelved for a while, anyway, so it just hasn't been at the front of my mind— _will you do it or not?_ "

He already felt a bit stupid for it not having occurred to him earlier, but now he feels moreso at the baffled look on Shawn's face. Even while he smiles and reaches out for Carlton's shoulders.

"Obviously,  _yes_ , Lassie, I will." Shawn breathes a laugh and shares a look with the other two. "... _You_  should realize by now that I would never pass up the chance to prove some English bastards wrong. As a rule."

"And you  _also_  want to help bring the town more resources, right?" Gus chimes in.

Shawn waves his hand and shrugs. "Sure, that too."

They all know that he's mostly joking, or at least  _he_  hopes so. An Daingean really has seen much better days, and he'd be very happy to restore it in any way he can. But... still, in all honesty, the notion of  _specifically_  helping Lassiter do something that the Sovereign has repeatedly refused to allow—to push an entire industry onto a town that has collectively decided it couldn't be done... is his greatest motivating factor.

There's only one problem.

"You  _do_  know that the moment I put my skin back on, though... I'm going to be out of commission for no less than three, probably four days."

It's the price he pays for pushing the limits of his curse this long. Carlton knows that—he can see how much Shawn is itching to get back in the water this very moment. For a second he feels a stab of worry that Shawn may very well be gone for longer, that he may even be driven not to come back at  _all_ —

Until Shawn, feeling an echo of that very same worry, reaches forward to squeeze his arm again.

" _Hey_ —I can't promise how human I'll be feeling, but I'll try to make it quick. I just need to recuperate. Put my sea legs back on long enough for my land legs to fit again, you know."

"I... don't think that's even close to what 'sea legs' is supposed to mean."

"Well, I've heard it both ways."

There is a glint in Shawn's eyes that almost makes Carlton forget that they're not alone. But that fact quickly returns to him, at which he abruptly nods and, in fear of seeing suspicion on their faces, makes a point not to glance in the others' direction. He surely seems stiff and awkward enough without even knowing. He coughs.

"It'll take O'Hara and I about that time to get my old boat back into shape, anyway," he brings himself to say.

As quickly as possible, he proceeds to pull off his coat and thus get Shawn's sealskin in hand. Overriding any worry he may still have is a genuine desire to see Shawn rid of this discomfort—to return his freedom to him, regardless.

Before extending it out to him, however,

"So it's a plan?"

Shawn grins in spite of the slow-rising moon and his deepening impatience.

"Hell  _yes_  it's a plan."

The presence of Lassiter and Gus and Jules are in fact the things that keep him grounded while he undresses himself, which feels achingly slow and yet also far too hasty, considering whom he's leaving behind in the process. Nevermind that it should only be for a week, at most.

He gives Gus his clothes and his goodbyes, and he makes a point of thanking Juliet for taking care of Gus in the meantime. That gives him  _precisely_  the reaction that he hoped for. He turns to Lassiter, meanwhile, knowing that he  _cannot_  do what he wants so badly to, lest he create a very unfair atmosphere between them all as soon as he leaves.

So he instead simply takes the skin from him and uses the briefest of moments, while their hands touch, to lock the fingers that are hidden from view.

"Thank you, again," Shawn says aloud. Everything that he doesn't say remains behind his eyes.

And Carlton does see some of it, before the selkie disappears into the moonlit waves once more.

 

***

 

_Dear Carlton,_

_It took me some time to convince my father and to ensure a safe vessel for you but, luckily for both of us, not nearly as long as I'd thought. There should be a small ship with the Parker crest at An Daingean's docks in two or three days, depending on how well this letter travels. The captain is instructed to come find you when he does arrive, regardless._

_I do apologize for the short notice. Though I am sure that my impatience comes as no surprise to you, with the months of silence that have fallen on the state of our marriage. I anxiously await your arrival so that we can finally be rid of this uncertainty._

_See you soon,  
_ _Victoria_

 

Reading this, Carlton is thrust a month into the past—into the state of mind that allowed him to finally respond to Victoria's first letter, and into the emotions that led up to all that he told her, then... And he finds that man unrecognizable.

Factually, yes, he knows that he suggested a visit between them. But as of now he cannot, no matter how hard he tries, grasp at a  _connection_ between himself and those words. It feels almost like a dream, or as though he watched someone else do it.

Yet the proof is in his hands, crisp and clear and undeniable. The paper holds the Parker family crest. Victoria's handwriting contrasts deeply on top of it.

Jesus, he rarely sees actual  _paper_  at all, let alone  _this_  white. This is surely real.  _Too_  real.

Carlton blinks and wipes a hand over his closed eyes. The letter is still there when he opens them. He still struggles to find any meaning in the words other than nauseating panic, deep in the pit of his stomach.

Mostly due to the images of Shawn that are pulsing in the very front of his mind.

He still hasn't spoken a word about that—hardly even to Shawn himself, and  _especially_  not to Juliet... And yet he feels compelled, now, to tell her about this letter as well as the previous ones, and to finally give her every other last detail on the absence of his wife, even though he's sure that she's heard every iteration of the story from other townsfolk.

It's only fair that she has the story straight from his mouth, he decides, if he's going to expect her help. But it's also that he feels practically ill and simply  _cannot_  process it alone.

"...You really waited five whole months to write back to her?" is the first thing that Juliet seems to latch onto.

Carlton sighs loudly. "I didn't  _wait_ , I—I just didn't know what I should have said, and I didn't want to think about it, and I shut it out of my mind so many times, and... I don't know what finally convinced me to write back, either," he lies. "But yes, it was five months, which is somewhat why I don't think I expected her to actually accept my offer to visit, let alone so  _soon_ —"

" _Oh_ —" Juliet's eyes very suddenly go wide, and her hand shoots upward to point at him—"You don't think she's trying to trick you into getting stuck over there, do you?"

He almost laughs.  _I thought_ I  _was the paranoid one, here._  Although—

"You have a point," he mutters, now looking down and mulling over the possibilities. "This letter  _did_  come off as much more casual than the first, despite the fact that after five months she'd be  _well_  within her rights to be angry with me— _and_! I never told her that I would be  _immediately_  capable of taking any kind of trip out of town, but she thought it appropriate to send a boat without confirming it with me first? Unless, she didn't actually believe it  _appropriate_  but rather wanted to manipulate me into a position where I hardly have an option to turn her down..."

Carlton begins to wring his hands while thinking deeper into the gravity of the situation, and he forgets for a moment that he isn't alone. Until Juliet takes in a sharp breath.

"Do you  _want_  to turn her down?" she asks, one eyebrow raised.

His head snaps back up, only to remain still and silent for another few moments.

"I... don't know."

"Well, don't you want to see her? I mean—I don't claim to know anything about your marriage, but you were... a  _mess_  when I first arrived in An Daingean. At least compared to what people said you'd been like only a few weeks prior, when... um." She takes a deeper breath, then. "When your wife was still here."

If not for how much this letter has wracked him, he might be interrogating her about all that the townsfolk told her, and whether she purposefully sought out a backstory on him, and whether she pried into the rumors about Victoria, and whether she has known more than she let on this entire time, and... whom exactly she got her answers from. But those questions stay tucked away where Carlton cannot even care to wonder about them for more than a moment, as he is distracted entirely by a different one:

_Does_  he want to see her?

If it cannot mean that their separation is over with, he knows that seeing her would be painful. But then—what if  _seeing her_  alone appeals enough to his softer nature that he is convinced to stay there? And what if she  _does_  mean to force him to stay?

What if seeing  _him_  can somehow convince Victoria to return  _here_?

In spite of all the torture he has felt, and all the damage he has even inflicted on others solely for the sake of her absence in the past months, Carlton doesn't know that he wants  _that_  at all. The idea of all the changes that would be made by his wife's sudden presence terrifies him... just as well as the idea of his life returning to normal  _excites_  him.

It's an idea that he doesn't think he can ignore without feeling terribly guilty.

At the same time that entertaining that idea makes him possibly much  _more_  guilty. Shawn's face is behind his eyes every time he closes them. Shawn's hands are on his neck, taking his pain. Shawn's lips are on his, drawing a spark of both passion and comfort out of him each and every time.

"I wasn't thinking when I wrote her that letter," Carlton says, finding his voice a bit hoarse. "I didn't want to think about it for  _months_  and when I finally wrote it I think I continued to do just that, but—"

"Just because she sent you a boat doesn't mean you have no choice but to get on it," Juliet interrupts. "If you aren't ready, I'm sure that... you can simply send it back with a letter explaining that it  _is_ , indeed, too short of a notice. If her motives are pure, she  _will_  understand."

That is... all completely true. By all means, he should have nothing to worry about. He  _should_  leave Victoria at fault for planning this out badly even if she doesn't intend to trap him in England.

He should, but... a great deal of the problems in their relationship have come from him being too quick to blame her, haven't they? He remembers them vividly now, and feels equally vivid shame.

It takes surprisingly very little thought after that realization to decide that, if nothing else, he  _owes_  her this.

"No, I—I think I need to go," he says. "I can't quite say that I feel ready, but... I suppose that's fine. I certainly won't get any readier. The only problem is..."

"Shawn, yeah..." She says that, and Carlton's head snaps up more abruptly than before. She frowns at that. "Our plan with him, remember? The fish?"

" _Right_. Yes."

God, he didn't even think about that.

"Then again, I can probably get your old boat restored just as well without you, if you'll let me. And if Shawn is up to it only after you're gone, I'll just let him know you had to leave and I'm  _sure_  he'd understand—"

" _Don't_  tell him where I've gone." The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them.

"...Oh. Why not?"

"Just—" He can't think up a single good reason other than the truth. "Just don't, okay? It's none of his business."

She agrees quickly, and even her visible curiosity fades as she continues to give ideas that will help accommodate his absence.

For whatever reason, Juliet seems incredibly eager to take on a multitude of extra responsibilities in order for him to visit Victoria. He might even guess that she wants him to go more than any part of  _him_  wants to go. Though she likely has no notion of that, does she?

Deeply and  _feverishly_  ambivalent as he feels about this trip and all the implications surrounding it, Carlton at least knows, now, that he could not ask for a better friend.

 

**

 

"Hold on—is Jules  _actually_  temporarily the Sheriff? Is this Sovereign-approved? Is that even something that  _can_  be Sovereign-approved? Are the Burgesses—?"

"I don't know all the political details, Shawn," Gus sighs. "Or much of  _any_  of them, for that matter... All Juliet told me is that Lassiter gave her access to any and all of his weapons while he's gone, and that everything she's taken on means she's too busy to be out here herself. Frankly, I'm more surprised that Lassiter doesn't mind  _me_  having full use of his boat..."

While Gus puts most of his focus back into rowing, Shawn simply folds his knees up to his chest and gazes in the direction of the docks.

"Hm. And you don't know when Lassie is supposed to come back?"

"Juliet said there's no telling for sure. He left yesterday, and wherever he's going, she made it sound like it'll take him a few days just to get there... But he doesn't really  _need_  to be out here, does he? I mean, he'd probably prefer to be the one manning his own boat, but it's you who's doing most of the work anyway."

Most of the wistfulness that Shawn was feeling is blown away by such an unheard-of yet  _blatant_  admission of his work ethic from Gus.

He looks back to him, grins, and starts to pull his sealskin back over himself.

"I  _am_  doing all of the work here, aren't I?"

While he flips out of the boat, he can hear his friend's distant shout of "No,  _most_! I said MOST, Shawn!"

 

**

 

If Carlton hasn't returned after two weeks since his departure, Juliet is to send Shawn over to rescue him. He dearly hopes that it will not come to that, as confident as he is that the selkie would be the most effective tool if it does.

Meanwhile he feels an utter  _lack_  of confidence in the purpose of this trip the moment that he steps on the ship, though that may only be the fact that he hasn't been on one in... a  _very_  long time. And the standoffish, likely Irish-hating, attitude of the ship's captain for the entire journey certainly does not help.

The best use of his time for those three days, he finds, is clearing his mind.

He fails to do so, of course. But he keeps his thoughts away from An Daingean by staring out at the ocean, and thinking of his rebellion days. And he keeps his thoughts away from the selkie by re-reading Victoria's letters and drawing up a plan of what he's going to say to her. And he keeps his thoughts away from  _Victoria_  by indulging in a block of wood and his carving knife.

And he does his best to keep a balance between the three that will not drive him crazy.

 

**

 

He doesn't mean to be so transparent about missing Lassiter, nor even about being so curious as to where he is, but he can hardly help himself. The desire to keep checking the docks for him, however irrational, eats away at Shawn.

And, as Gus is surely aware by now, he is even  _more_  at the mercy of his whims while in seal form.

Though if Gus  _is_  wondering about any deeper details of his relationship to Lassiter, the closest he's gotten to asking outright is merely giving Shawn pointedly odd looks. Each time, he opts to either remain a seal or quickly become one to avoid acknowledging it—a method that's never failed him yet.

He appreciates that his friend hasn't said anything, regardless.

A couple days pass and their pile of fish grows, along with Shawn's impatience for Lassiter to return so he can actually  _see_  it—as well as a bit of frustration, now, that the man would be missing for his own plan.

That frustration only has Shawn swimming through the docks more frequently, stupid as even the seal part of him knows it is. It has him poking his head up even closer to the ships than before, searching with his black eyes for any sign of Lassiter's return. It has the actual very  _short_  amount of time since Lassiter's departure escape him. It has him dangerously careless about being seen by sailors who might like to catch him, in retrospect.

He's very lucky  _not_  to be seen. As though to make up for it, however, he has the misfortune of indeed recognizing  _someone_  out on the docks.

He freezes with a kind of horror that he wouldn't have thought himself capable of when he lacks the proper muscles in his face to express it. A kind of horror that hits him worse now, somehow, than it possibly could as a human.

 

**

 

The outline of Victoria stands out on the docks several minutes before the ship reaches them. Carlton needs no convincing nor even a  _moment_  to be sure after he sees her—even if he couldn't recognize that dress from a mile away, she's already waving them in.

The knots in his stomach are gone in an instant.

All he can think of, as the image of her becomes clearer, as her  _face_  comes into view... is how long he has gone without seeing it. Anything and  _everything_  else that he has felt towards her in these long months is far away, now, so distant that he could not take them back if he wanted to.

They leave behind only a deep,  _deep_  relief at the sight of his wife.

Yet Carlton finds himself unmoving, even when the ship finally pulls in and there is little between him and the dock. He finds his legs locked, and his stomach in a knot once more but an  _entirely_  different sort, and his arms and hands  _shaking_ , and...

He finds Victoria smiling in such a way that seems like she's missed him, too.

With his feet still feeling like stones but with a rush of energy to combat them, he drags himself into a running pace, and he jumps right onto the dock, and he ignores the painfully rapid beating of his heart and the tears welling up in his eyes and even the weakness in his arms, and he wraps them around her to a mere soft  _oh_  of surprise.

But her arms do come around him in return and, without much pause at all, she squeezes and hugs him back. In the back of Carlton's mind he wonders whether she is grateful or disappointed that he made no attempt to kiss her... but that quickly proves not to matter.

She pulls away slowly, beaming and holding either side of his face in her hands. Seeing her face so close and hearing her voice after all this time feels even less real than a dream, as well as he knows that it isn't.

"You've been learning to trim your own beard, I see."

A bark of a laugh that he can't seem to control abruptly leaves him. He begins to feel embarrassed before Victoria only beams brighter.

"I have," he admits through a rasp. He's barely spoken for three days, he realizes. "I've, um. Learned a lot of things while you were gone."

Her hands drop from his face, and then take  _his_  hands from her waist. The knot in his stomach inexplicably loosens.

"Why don't you come have dinner and tell me all about them?"

 

**

 

Shawn catches the familiar face training on his own and promptly speeds away.

Not out of fear that he has somehow been recognized, he doesn't think, but rather a desperation to just  _get away_ , to  _not_  be forced to see that face so unceremoniously—to figure out why the  _fuck_ he has just seen that face at all, particularly without any goddamn warning.

Gus doesn't give him that odd look again when he leaps back into the boat, thank God. Instead he looks worried.

"What happened?" he asks quickly, surging forward. He arches his head around and grabs gingerly at Shawn's arms, seeming to check him for injuries.

Shawn, however, can only bring himself to stare back at his friend in silence, giving no indication that he is physically alright. If anything he's sure that he appears the opposite, with the blood drained from his face, and with his arms shaking, and with his breath coming short.

"What  _happened_ , Shawn?" Gus asks a second time, more urgent now.

He looks right into Gus's eyes, his own feeling weighed down in their sockets, and finally manages to open his mouth. But his voice just barely comes out.

"I... I saw my dad."

Gus's eyes widen, but he says nothing. The silence gets Shawn's attention.

And the moment Shawn frowns, Gus clears his throat.

"Are you sure it was him?"

He  _does_  feel extremely sure, nevermind how little he'd have thought that possible, but... rather than saying so right away, Shawn frowns deeper. And straightens up.

And he notices, in spite of how far he is still mentally reeling, that Gus hasn't actually expressed any confusion.

Before he can open his mouth again, Gus already cracks.

" _Oh_ , God—I am  _so_ , so sorry, Shawn, I—"

"You knew he was back in town," Shawn finishes for him, quietly and evenly and with hardly any hint of accusation in his tone. Nevertheless, Gus looks like he's about to cry.

"I didn't think you'd want to know," he manages to tell him. "He's—I haven't  _spoken_  to him, I promise, I don't think _anyone_  really has, I...  _I_  only even knew he was back because word got around An Daingean a couple years ago! Every once in a while I hear someone mention that they saw him in the pub or something, but... I figured he was just a total hermit and I honestly didn't think you'd have to see him— _God_ , Shawn, I'm—"

"Is he still living in the old house on the cliff?"

That catches both of them off guard. Shawn wants to believe that Gus was right and that he truly has  _no_  desire to know anything about Henry or his life, but the question just slips out. After it does, he has genuine hope that Gus will at least be unable to answer, so he could shelf that curiosity for now, but,

"As far as I know, no one else ever moved in. If he isn't living there again, I don't know where he  _could_  be... Listen, Shawn, I really am sorry that I never told you. It's just that I didn't think you were even going to stay in town longer than you usually do, and then when you did I knew it would only make you upset, and then  _I'd_  be really upset because you  _know_  I'm a sympathetic crier, and..."

He trails off, likely due to his throat closing up from trying so hard not to sob incoherently. Shawn would be more impressed that Gus actually held it off that long, if all of this wasn't practically sending him into a stupor.

The knowledge that his father has been in town all of this time, that he's so close  _now_ , that Shawn could actually go and speak to him so easily if he wanted... seems to pound, rhythmically, in his head. It whitens his vision and dampens his ears and clouds everything else in his mind, and... and he cannot take this. Not right now.  _Not_  in this form.

" _I understand, I just—_ "

He can't bring himself to say any more than that before the desire to pull his sealskin around him, and to put as much ocean as possible between himself and  _anyone_  else, becomes overwhelming.

Far be it from any selkie, let alone Shawn, to resist a desire like that.

 

**

 

Whenever Victoria told him of her father's estate, Carlton must admit, he didn't always listen. He never wanted to be entranced by anything English but for herself.

Now, in spite of the aggressive  _eliteness_  of it all and of the stark contrast he provides even in his best dress, he does find himself in a bit of awe. He's never personally seen anything quite so lavish, at least not as a guest.

And to see with his own eyes where Victoria came from—the wealth, the surplus of food, the absolute assuredness of not only safety but  _comfort_ , the time for recreation, the sheer space allotted entirely to herself... knowing that she was once able to settle for  _him_?

"I suppose I can't blame you at all for wanting to return here," he tells her with an honest laugh, both in self-deprecation and relief. That is, in her place, no amount of love could have kept even him from preferring to live in luxury.

But he isn't in her place. He doesn't come from this, nor has he  _ever_  lived like this. And he believes it's for that reason that, even looking around at this manor and the vast amount of food in front of him, he does not hesitate to also tell her,

"Don't get that in your head to mean I have any desire to live here with you, though."

Carlton proceeds to cut into some kind of wild fowl, hoping to get on with this dinner and otherwise avoid that topic, but several moments pass without a response. He looks up to find Victoria giving him an intensely confused grin.

The moment their eyes meet, she bursts out in a laugh. She then quickly covers her mouth, but doesn't seem particularly embarrassed as she says,

" _What?_  Did you think—do you really believe that  _I_  would think that? ...I know it's been a long time, but I'd have thought that we still  _knew_  each other, Carlton..."

He freezes up at that, but only very briefly. What if she's lying? Though if she is, it'll be the most believable one she's ever told. Assuming she  _isn't_... this should be a relief, shouldn't it?

_Is_  it?

"Oh," he says with a small nod. His heart skips a beat. "I take that to mean it isn't likely that you might return with me, either?"

He says that, thinking that Victoria will either laugh under the impression that that's merely a joke, or she will admit that it  _is_  indeed likely. Whether he actually wants the latter or not (of which he is still unsure), he does know that he wants to know her answer.

What she does, however, is begin to give him that confused grin again. But this time, her face drops a mere second into it.

"...Oh, I—I realize now that I should have been clearer in my letter. I may have... been a little thoughtless, in writing and sending it so quickly."

He frowns and pauses cutting his meat altogether. His voice comes out smaller than intended.

"What do you mean?"

Victoria tightens her lips and folds her hands, and then looks sad for a moment.

"Well, Carlton, I was  _hoping_... since I never bore any children, and thus there is no proof that our marriage was ever consummated... that with you here, we could formally annul our marriage entirely. And we could both live on to have different, more fulfilling unions without... worrying about retribution from God or anyone else."

 

**

 

"Are you sure that you can actually stay human on land long enough for this?"

"Ideally, Gus, I won't  _have_  to be up there for very long."

Gus easily concedes that point and hands the clothes over. Shawn has to wonder if his friend understands how genuine in his confidence he truly is.

Because  _he's_  finding it quite unbelievable himself. This has to be the shortest time he's ever needed to come to terms with something so...  _heavy_. Either it tipped the scales into a new territory entirely, or he's somehow maturing. He can't decide which of those he'd prefer.

He isn't even quite sure what he wants or expects out of this. But then, that  _is_  how Shawn prefers to live his life in general, isn't it?

On the way up the hill, he tries to convince himself that it is. He thinks of anything and everything  _but_  what awaits him, and he sings and hums to himself, and he pulls every mental stop to make his body forget that this is a serious situation.

And by the time he knocks on the door, he does indeed find himself void of worry. Along with every other emotion, for that matter.

A few seconds of muffled footsteps later, it all returns and hits him in full force.

"Now who the hell could—"

He can't believe that he's able to remain still, now.

"Hey, Dad," he says, so casual that it's almost funny.

" _Shawn_." Henry doesn't let go of the doorframe. His stony expression doesn't so much as twitch. "...I was about to fix some lunch. Why don't you come in?"

 

**

 

"An annulment," he repeats, with as little inflection as an Irishman can.

"I have the priest that married us very close by," she says swiftly. "It would take almost no time at all... But—I swear to you, you won't be kept here against your will if you refuse. I could convince my father to ready another ship for you right now, if you so wanted."

She looks and sounds more nervous than Carlton has ever seen her before. All he can truly think of, while he grows somewhat dizzy with anxiety himself, is that he  _hates_  to see her like this. Whether he's the cause of it or not.

He lets go of a deep, ragged breath.

"By God, I thought that perhaps..." His tone lilts upward as he trails off, and then he feels yet another laugh escaping him. A few tears threaten to, as well. "I... I  _don't know_  what I thought, really. I think... I've been a fool, Victoria. I know my mistakes and I won't ask your forgiveness for any of them. So— _yes_ , I'll do it. I'll give you the annulment as soon as you want. Otherwise neither of us will ever be free of this, will we."

With that he tears a chunk away from that fowl and stuffs it in his mouth as soon as he can, ignoring his near loss of appetite—to maintain  _some_  sense of dignity, at least. He downs two mouthfuls of wine sharply after, both to wash it down and to ease his nerves... only to glance up and find Victoria still staring at him. Her brow is raised in surprise, now.

"...Hm?"

"Oh, I'm... just happy that you're being so civil," she practically breathes. She then smiles brightly like she was when he first arrived. "What happened to my husband?"

He swallows. And again, despite his throat being empty.

"...He's right here."

"Well, he's certainly changed since I last saw him."

"Maybe it only took some time apart for him to change for the better."

She pauses.

"Having second thoughts about the annulment?"

"...Are you?"

"I... don't believe so." She takes a sip of her own wine, then. He wonders if she needs it the same way that he does. "Dare I say, you seem...  _happier_ , Carlton. I don't know if I could bear to ruin that."

"You didn't make me unhappy," he snaps, quicker than he means to. The mere implication burns him up. "I—I don't know what did, but it was  _not_  you, Victoria. It was both of us, it was... something that the more unfortunate majority simply live with, I think."

He's immediately reminded of so many of the married men he knows, and how undoubtedly horrible they are to their wives. Of all the women who would certainly leave if they had a choice. Of the completely loveless union that is far more common than what they had.

Part of him feels utterly undeserving of this chance, as deeply as he wants it.

"But  _are_  you not happier?" Victoria asks.

Now he feels even more guilty. Because it's absolutely no question. He takes another long drink before answering.

"I am, actually."

"Replaced me already?" She doesn't sound upset whatsoever, but Carlton still feels offended at the very notion.

" _No_ , not at all," he assures her. Though he himself is unsure whether that's entirely true. Or, if it is, whether he should tell her.

Victoria  _is_ , in fact, aware of his tendencies towards men. He never liked to keep secrets from her before, even when it would have been prudent to. Even when it might very well have  _saved his life_  to. Tolerance of that sort of thing wasn't a trait that was clear in her from the beginning—no, he knows that he took a damn  _stupid_  risk in letting her know.

And yet he does not regret it. When the idea of marriage first arose between them, he decided that she ought to  _know_  all of him before she commit her soul and body to him—that she be aware that he'd lain with others before, in college and during the rebellion... and that those others had all been men.

He told her, then, that those days were behind him, even if he did still feel those desires from time to time. What mattered was that he'd chosen not to act upon them—that he'd chosen  _her_.

All of that was true, and luckily, Victoria believed so. She only ever alluded to those facts of his past, even, when they fought.  _When_ , he always supposed, she felt like humiliating him, like making him feel ashamed about any and all of his shortcomings.

He wonders what she might say, now, if she learned that he no longer feels that sort of shame.

But he ultimately thinks that it wouldn't be dinner-appropriate conversation regardless.

"I've, um. Made some... friends, crazily enough," is what he does say.

Victoria makes an excited noise through a mouthful of food, at that. Carlton's heartbeat picks up.

"...Connected with a cousin of mine, in fact."

" _Mm_ —I didn't know you had a cousin?"

He chuckles. "Neither did I, until... recently."

_And none of those changes could have ever happened if you'd never left,_  he thinks, but does not dare say aloud. Even with this decision to annul their union, the last thing he wants to appear or even feel regarding their separation is  _grateful_. It fills him with a deep, numbing sadness to know that his marriage and his current livelihood could never have co-existed.

At the same time, he  _is_  deeply grateful that it was never his choice to make.  _That_  would be a kind of agony that he cannot fathom.

But through all of it, Carlton can  _worse_  so shake the desire to laugh, to tell her—

"Actually, would you like to know the funniest thing?"

For the first time in a while, she looks like she'd be no less than delighted to.

"Do you, um... do you remember that thief, from the night that you left?"

 

**

 

Shawn sits at Henry's table—at  _his_  old kitchen table—in silence, for what feels like an hour. Realistically, he knows it must be a very small fraction of that. But time has always been a very emotional thing for him. And  _emotionally_ , it's been a fucking hour.

_In_  that hour he has surveyed every last detail within reach of his childhood home—he has dug up decade-old memories to compare them against today, and he has made mental note of every bit that has changed and, concerningly more so, every bit that hasn't. He's dragged his tired eyes across every inch of wall and floor and furniture. He's taken in the simultaneous miserable emptiness and the nostalgia of this place.

He's then glanced in Henry's direction only in the context of deciding precisely how much  _hair_  the man has lost, and how much emotional age has plagued him on top of the real, "factual" years.

And to see what he's cooking, of course.

" _Crab_ , huh? I suppose you can afford to eat pretty well these days, now that it's just you," is the first thing that Shawn brings himself to say.

Henry reacts exactly as Shawn thought he might—which is to say, not at  _all_  physically, and by waiting several seconds to actually acknowledge him.

"...Glad to see you're still sharp, kid. Unless that's just your..." Henry sighs deeply, sounding like something inside him is cracking, before continuing, "...seal senses, or something."

"Well, maybe my sharpness was always a seal thing," Shawn suggests, an edge to his tone. Henry's shoulders do get stiff, at that one. Shawn smirks and leans over the table. "You know that I wasn't ever  _not_  a selkie, right? ...Even if I never jumped in after her, I would still have her blood. No amount of keeping me away from the ocean or whatever else could ever have changed that."

The silence that follows lasts only a moment, but it's deathly.

It ends as Henry drops his knife with a clatter that rings in Shawn's ears, and as he turns around looking even  _more_  aged.

"You think I don't know that better than you do? Dammit, Shawn... you're deeply mistaken if you think I ever wanted you to  _not_  have her blood. Did you ever think that I just didn't want you to be  _cursed_ , like she is now?"

Shawn stands up and feels his face twist.

"And what would  _you_  know about that?" he demands, with a short and mirthless laugh. "Do you have any idea where she is now?"

Henry folds his arms. "Do  _you_?"

"Not that far from here, actually." Shawn revels in the horror that shines through Henry's eyes. "I can't be sure  _exactly_  where, but... I do know that she's swimming with our pod, enjoying her simple life and her freedom... maybe a little impatient for me to get back, too."

The horror grows, and seems to keep the man across from him silent for even longer than Shawn expected.

Then, in an oddly small voice with his arms now dropped to his sides,

"You've been with her?"

_Oh._  Shawn begins to soften, but remains as wary as he can.

"...Yeah, I have."

"This whole time?"

"Well—give or take the week that it took to find her, and almost every full moon, and some whole months here and there, and a lot of the  _last_  several months... You know, I've  _been_  in An Daingean quite a bit lately, and I had to be at the docks to realize you were back at all. I think the real question is, how have  _you_  just been up  _here_  this whole time?"

His father just frowns, then slowly turns back around to resume preparing lunch before answering.

"Was out of town too long to reconnect with anyone, and it's easy enough to be self-sustainable with what I've got up here... and maybe you would have seen me sooner if you only  _checked_... Let me guess, you're back to just screw around with Gus again?"

Shawn lets himself fall back into the chair and sighs.

"Please, Dad. Gus and I don't ' _screw around_ '—he's too good for that, now. I do, however, keep him company while he does his extremely boring job, and occasionally force him out of his comfort zone so he's able to have fun—"

"So nothing's changed, I see—"

"— _and_  I walk about town and make new friends everyday, and I do what I can to help the community, and—oh! I've actually been helping out the Sheriff occasionally, in  _several_  different matters... so I guess I didn't turn out to be  _such_  a disappointment, huh?"

Henry turns around again, this time with two full plates in hand.

"Helping out the Sheriff?" And then, with a growing smile, "That's a good one."

 

*

 

Neither of them speak during lunch. Shawn, because he would prefer to get all the way through this free meal  _before_  potentially ruining it. Meanwhile he cannot know Henry's reasons for certain, but he'd imagine that it has something to do with "manners."

It seems that the very second that both of their plates are clean, however, Henry folds his hands on the table in front of him and clears his throat. Shawn already feels a wave of dread.

"Why are you here, Shawn?"

He leans back and laughs. "Wow. I didn't necessarily expect you to be excited to see me, but—"

"Well, I don't know  _how_  I'm supposed to feel, Shawn, when you abandon me and then show up thirteen years later like it's nothing, without so much as an apology, and looking like  _that_ —"

" _Hold on_ —" Shawn's dread turns to rage in an instant and shoots him out of the chair again. "...I  _abandoned_  you? That's funny, because I believe that implies that I owed you  _anything_  or had any kind of responsibility to you—"

"And you never  _could_  handle an ounce of responsibility, could you?" Henry shouts over him, which incenses him  _so_  much worse.

"YOU were the one who married a selkie, and had a selkie  _kid_ , Dad! You knew what you were getting into!  _You_  were the one who took Mom's skin,  _knowing_ —God, you  _had_  to know how miserable she would become, and you didn't care! You  _trapped_  her here, and  _I_  was the only good thing to—"

Henry slams his hands down on the table and pushes himself up. He's shaking when he meets his son's eyes.

"I... did  _no_  such thing, Shawn. I did not  _trap_  her, don't you  _dare_ —Shawn, I  _loved_  your mother, and I suppose you wouldn't have seen that when you were younger and didn't know what that meant—"

"Oh, don't you fucking  _patronize_ —"

"Don't YOU act like you know what our lives were like before you were born! I knew her long before even I married her—I would  _never_  have taken Madeleine's skin if she hadn't wanted me to, I...  _God almighty_ , Shawn..."

He can only bring himself to watch, wide-eyed in baffled anger, as his father briefly hangs his head and wipes his face with one hand. Even with thirteen whole years since he's seen the man, Shawn feels certain that this is a first.

Henry sniffs, and continues quietly, "The  _only_  thing I regret is trying to fight her for so long before I gave her skin back to her. You're right about one thing—I did know what I was getting into. And I knew how it was likely to end, but I swear to you, I  _did_ care. My mistake was not realizing how miserable your mother was just because she wasn't saying so outright, and... you  _cannot_  know deeply I wish that I'd allowed her to be happy sooner."

The look of actual  _sympathy_  on his father's face is so utterly foreign that Shawn finds himself trying to blink it away, as though it were a dream.

"You're lying," he says simply, when it remains.

Henry closes his eyes and exhales through his nose. "I promise you, I'm not—"

"I don't fucking believe you!" Shawn says louder, now, with a crack in his voice. "You're the one who  _taught_  me how to observe things so well—you expect me to believe you couldn't even tell how sad your wife was? You expect me to believe that—that  _you_ , who never so much as told your son that you loved him, are actually that  _selfless_? That's bullshit, Dad."

"...Alright, fine, Shawn—be a brat,  _don't_  believe me. But you still haven't told me why you even showed up—what is it, just for the lunch? Just to come in and bring up the past and blame me for everything that ever went wrong in your life? I don't know what the hell you expect from me, kid."

" _God_ , you—"

Shawn has to turn away so as to not start crying from anger at the mere sight of Henry's face. It takes a second just to draw his breath well enough to speak.

" _What_ , Shawn?"

"I don't KNOW, Dad," he snaps, his eyes squeezed shut—"Alright? I don't fucking know why I showed up or what I expected and  _you know what_ , other than the crab it was obviously a mistake, and I'm—God, why am I even still  _here_ —"

Without even a parting glance, Shawn starts toward the door with such swift speed that he doesn't even hear Henry running after him until he's already outside. Rather than trying to catch him, however, Henry merely yells out,

"Hey, son, you think you can at least do me the respect of walking down the hill normally instead of jumping off the damn cliff?"

Shawn stops in his tracks but doesn't turn even halfway around. He just needs to laugh, and to shout back,

"You know, I didn't  _want_  to—but I have to give these clothes back to Gus. Lucky for you, huh?"

Before he sprints out of earshot, then, Shawn hears one more thing from him:

 

" _When you see Maddie, can you tell her I love her?_ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not actually sure how complicated an annulment might have been in the 1590s, but this is one aspect of the story for which, in regards to historical accuracy, I’ll ask you to suspend your disbelief. Divorce certainly wasn’t possible at the time, so it’s the closest thing to paralleling canon that I could use, and this particular parallel felt very important to the story, to me.
> 
> Also, I wanna say, I really wish that Victoria had been more of a character in canon as opposed to mainly just a backstory for Lassiter. I also wish that she’d like, EVER been mentioned after she and Lassiter finally divorced, if not continued to be a character then. I think the notion/trope of leaving a years-long romantic relationship but continuing to be good friends with that person is a vastly underrated one, especially considering how realistic it is. And their marriage in canon ultimately ended in such a civil way that honestly? The fact that she’s pretty much never mentioned again and that it seems like they want us to believe that their relationship was just irrelevant after it was Officially over... is downright offensive.


	10. Song

In thirteen years, Shawn hasn't exactly  _spoken_  very much at all with his mother. That isn't even due to her being unable to form words out loud so much as that they haven't  _needed_  words any more than regular seals do.

What they have needed is precisely what they can communicate just fine without them— _food_ ,  _land_ ,  _deeper_ ,  _this way_ ,  _that way_... Feelings, too. Safety. Fear.  _Love_.

His mother  _is_  capable of words, of articulated conversation, but it takes effort. It takes the same sort of mental willpower that a selkie needs to remain on land as long as she did, which is something that Shawn has never wanted to push her to do. Nor does he still. She deserves every possible bit of freedom to make up for what she's been damned to.

Shawn supposes he might have neglected to tell her what happened with Henry _forever_  if she didn't say something first.

That is, if he didn't suddenly hear her voice in his head for the first time in years, clear as day despite being underwater, demanding to know what was upsetting him so badly.

He knows, in that moment, that his mother deserves to know. That he doesn't want to make her stay concerned for him—that she must be  _unbearably_  concerned, if she's actually talking. But he cannot draw up the willpower himself to tell her like this, to tell her  _anything_  with his mind alone... It's too clouded. He  _can't_.

He points his head in the direction of shore and starts swimming. As he senses her in his wake he swims faster, leading her as quickly as he can to the nearest rock or beach or  _anything at all_  that he can sit on above the water—

He tears himself out of his sealskin with a fierceness that he doesn't think he's ever had reason to. His heart pounds. He catches his breath. The world fades in from blinding white to its usual, underwhelming colors.

But his mother's curiosity and concern make him feel no less dread, when she hops up onto the rock with him.

"I need to tell you something that you probably won't like, Mom," he croaks out. "It's... about why I was gone so long the other day."

Part of him wishes that they truly could just... effortlessly read each other's minds. He wishes he didn't have to choose the words himself. He wishes the mere concepts could be enough.

He wishes so badly that he could at least be  _better_  at saying these things. Crazily enough, the first thing that he does tell her is,

"I saw Henry. He... told me to tell you he still loves you."

Immediately, Shawn feels not only surprise from her, but delight. And he hears,  _Oh! He really said that?_

His heart sinks.

And then, so does hers.

_What's wrong, Shawn? What happened?_

 

_*_

 

"Tell me he's full of shit, Mom, please. You were miserable—he  _has_  to be lying, I... Is he?"

She doesn't have to do so much as blink or twitch her nose for Shawn to know how deeply sad she's been made by this. In  _feeling_  that sadness from her, he almost wishes that he never brought this up, that he had just tried harder not to worry her in the first place—

But then her efforts to get the words through to him become clearer than her feelings. So clear, even, that Shawn briefly expects to see a human woman standing before him.

_I didn't want to keep this from you, Shawn,_  she projects.  _I swear to you, I never intended to hide anything or keep secrets... I am_ so _sorry, believe me. It's been so hard—_

"Mom, you don't have to be sorry for  _anything_ , ever," he interrupts, before he quite registers what she's saying.

But the sentiment stands. She presses her head against his hand.

_...Shawn, I gave your father my skin of my own free will. He didn't even want to take it from me, at first. I'm the one who insisted—I had just realized I was pregnant. I made a_ decision _, Shawn. I knew... it would have been terrible of me to damn you without a choice. And I wanted a_  family _. I chose a life on land. I didn't want to be able to be tempted. I told Henry to hide it as well as he could, and he did that favor for me. I knew far better than he did how it would come to wear on me, you must believe... I wanted to_ be _there for you, Shawn. I wanted to be a good mother. When I asked Henry to give it back to me I thought that you were old enough to not need me anymore, but now I know that was stupid of me. I should have seen my light in you. I should have known that I was only damning you along with me, I should have..._

_I should have told you the truth before I left. I need you to know I never wanted to leave you, Shawn, I—I feel no ill will for Henry, either. Not at all. I need you to know that._

The first thing Shawn knows, when his mother's voice is no longer present, is that the world is obscured. That there are tears in his eyes so thick that they will not be blinked away. That... for the first time in the longest time, they do not come from any kind of anger.

_Why_  he feels no anger nor even a sense of betrayal toward his mother, now, he struggles to grasp. Is he not capable of it? Is she truly on that high of a pedestal, in his eyes? Does he genuinely, effortlessly recognize that she isn't to blame for any of the hurt that he's felt, regardless of all that she's just told him?

Or does his bitterness toward his father just weigh out so far that he cannot find it in him to feel an ounce of that for her?

Perhaps all the unmistakable love and warmth he has ever felt  _from_  his mother, when he never felt the same from his father, is the thing that weighs out.

His voice comes out ragged when he finally speaks again.

"You—you don't?  _Really_?" He knows that he doesn't have to ask that. But the human, irrational side of him prevails. "Because I do, Mom. I... I  _know_  you're not lying to me, but—he's  _never_  understood me, he's never acted like  _half_  the father that he should have been, he's..."

_I understand why you feel the way you do,_  her voice rings out as his own trails off. It feels more strained, now.  _And I wish I could understand more. I think... that thirteen years of living like this has made me forget what it was like. I think that I might feel angry on your behalf if I could remember the worse things, but... I_ can't _, Shawn, I—_

"Don't," he tells her, with a jerking shake of his head and a sudden boost from what he felt only a minute ago. "You don't need to remember those things. Please, I don't want you to feel anything bad for me, I'm sorry—"

_Don't you do that._

The sharpness surprises him. Mostly, he didn't imagine she was capable of it.

_...I love you, Shawn, but I don't need you to take care of me even if I am stuck like this. I am_ your  _mother and I will do whatever I can to take care of you as much as I want to, and there's not a damn thing you can do to stop me._

To prove it, she promptly pushes off from Shawn's side and rolls into the water, where she then does not hesitate to speed away.  _Away_ , it seems, from both him and the rest of the pod.

And Shawn... is left alone, staring off at the wide expanse of directionless ocean, clutching his sealskin around his shoulders, and wondering if this is how _he_  often makes people feel.

 

***

 

"Oh, thank  _God_  you're still alive."

" _Carlton!_  You—wait," she stops herself in the middle of what seemed to be trying for a hug. Her excitement turns to confusion as she gives him a once-over. "...Did you  _run_  all the way here from the docks?"

Not only that, but he ran home to check there first, and he's asked every citizen of An Daingean whose path he crossed on the way if they knew where "his cousin" was, or whether or not she was okay.

"It's not that I doubt your abilities," he decides to preface, still catching his breath. "I just—you know."  _Didn't entirely trust the townsfolk not to form a mob big enough to overpower you and do something to punish you on the basis of being a woman and taking a position of authority._

But he doesn't think he needs to say that. They discussed it well enough before he left.

It still surprises him to see her smile and continue forward rather than look or act offended.

"Aw, you were  _worried_!" She shows no mercy in hugging the regained breath out of him. He can hardly find the strength to move his arms before she pulls right back. "How was it? What did Victoria say? Did she—oh, nevermind, you can tell me later in private. Also, even though you've returned, do you mind terribly if I keep this sword on my hip the rest of the day? I've gotten used to the weight. And it would really be a waste of time to walk all the way home just to put it away—"

"O'Hara," he uses his first proper breath to say, just to get her to stop rambling. And he slaps a hand down on her shoulder. "You can keep that sword on your hip whenever you like. Judging by the fact that An Daingean isn't in ruins, I can only assume you earned it.  _Although_... if you  _were_  to walk home, it might not actually be  _such_  a waste of time. But that'll depend on whether or not you like what I've brought back."

"You brought me a  _present_ —?"

"No—" he stops her before she can get too excited. "Not a  _present_ , and not  _just_  for you—but... a surprise. One that you've surely also earned, if you do like it.  _Actually_..."

Carlton turns away for a moment, averting his eyes to a blank sky so he can gather his thoughts. A whole week away from home, and then so little time but  _so_  much new information since his return... has put him in an odd place. He's seen more unfamiliar people and empty ocean in the past few days than he had in the last several years. He hasn't readjusted quite yet.

And now that he's confident that Juliet has been and still  _is_  in perfect control, something else has taken his emotional priority. Something that he doesn't think should or even  _could_  wait.

"...Actually, would you mind playing Sheriff for just a little while longer? Another hour, at most. I promise."

She doesn't ask what it is he needs to run off to do. She doesn't make any implication that she already knows. She doesn't even hesitate. She merely taps the hilt of her sword, smirks, and tells him,

"I don't see why not! Honestly, I'd be  _happy_  to get in one last bit of action if it so happens."

 

*

 

If someone had followed him, Carlton might not even know. He makes no less haste, now, than he did upon first arriving to find Juliet. Meanwhile he cannot pinpoint what exact sort of desperation drives him—whether it's guilt, or a true sense of urgency and a limited amount of time, or just... longing?

But he doesn't need to know that for his legs to properly and swifty take him to the shore. Or for the increasing scent of salt in the air to bring him relief. Or for it to simultaneously make his heart pound as though he's anticipating a battle.

Or for the sight of a seal's tail kicking out of the water, even before he climbs down the familiar cliffside, to bring a noise out of his lungs that he didn't know was there.

Though that one does, finally, let him know what he must be feeling.

The climb down is so swift and thoughtless that Carlton lands on level ground with scrapes up his arms, but it hardly occurs to him to mind. Not when he can already spot two human arms pulling up over the side of a rock, and he feels yet another noise drawn out of him—

" _Shawn!_ "

"What the hell took you so long?" the selkie shouts back.

Carlton nearly slips on the rocks as he runs out to him, still unable to mind, nor able to keep a grin off of his face, new as it is for him to feel this way.

"I—" He drops to his knees, down to Shawn's level, without a second thought. Shawn meets him with arms out to steady him and a wide-eyed look of concern.

" _Woah_ , Lassie—"

"I'm sorry for leaving. I had no idea that I was going to until past the full moon, and there was a boat sent for me that I'd have been daft to refuse—and I swear, most of my time gone was spent on a ship. I was on land for barely a full day. And I was thinking about you for so much of it regardless—"

"Lassie, where  _were_  you?"

Part of Shawn knows that that isn't necessarily his business. But he has spent  _so_  much time this past week, the past two days especially, waiting at the docks for him. Watching the ships come and go. Accompanied by only his own thoughts and worries because he could not stand anyone else. He feels  _older_ , now, than he did before he returned to the water.

"Lassie," he repeats, ducking his head and clutching the other man tighter. "You don't— _this_... was just about the  _worst_  week you could have possibly been gone, I... I couldn't have known that before you left, so obviously neither could you, but..."

Carlton panics. He didn't expect Shawn to be entirely  _happy_ , but now he has little idea of what to do, except... tell him the truth outright.

Swifty, but as gently as he can, he slides his hands onto either side of Shawn's face. And he feels Shawn's grip on him loosen. And he tilts Shawn's gaze back up to his.

"I was in England... with Victoria, at her father's estate. We annulled our marriage."

Shawn's heart stops, then resumes with so strong a beat that he feels as though it popped out completely.

He stares back without blinking.

"You... what?"

Carlton's grin begins to return. "Victoria isn't my wife anymore. Or—in the eyes of the Church and of God, at least, we were never truly married and I... am an utterly single man.  _Not_ —not that that makes any difference to the Church regarding what I do with you, or, or  _even_  that it makes a difference to me if I'm going to Hell because who the fuck  _isn't_ —?"

He doesn't mean to lunge forward the moment that Lassiter's eyes are averted—it's just that Shawn has no self-control left to stay still.

He's been thinking about it since he saw the ship come in, as upset as he still was.

He's been wanting it twice as badly since Lassiter's face came into view, upset as he still  _is_.

God, he's fucking  _missed_ him. So much worse than he probably should have.

Carlton's hands involuntarily slide to Shawn's neck as his face shoots out of them, but he quickly moves them back once Shawn's lips are on his. He furrows his brow and curls his fingers around Shawn's jaw and pulls him impossibly closer, and he feels Shawn's hands doing the very same thing—

Until, it seems only  _after_  he's had his physical catharsis, Shawn fully registers what Lassiter told him.

He pulls away just far enough that they're nose-to-nose.

"You really...  _annulled_  your marriage?" He gives small nod. "...Did you do that for me?"

"I did it because Victoria wanted me to," Carlton says, voice low and barely audible over the crashing waves. "At best I did it for her. A little bit for myself. I know a Catholic marriage means nothing to an affair between men in the first place, let alone a selkie... But I did think that with you being so self-absorbed and all, you'd like to know."

They're pressed so close, still, that Shawn almost doesn't notice Lassiter's smirk.

When he does, he laughs, and along with it lets out a short sob.  _Self-absorbed,_  he mentally repeats. _I really am, huh?_

He steals another firm, but brief kiss from Lassiter before ducking his head again. This time onto the crook between the other man's shoulder and neck—and now Shawn is surely getting his clothes wet, but to no sort of protest. He hopes that that isn't due to pity.

And Shawn couldn't know, but it really isn't. Carlton can see dark clouds rolling in and the waves growing harsher; even if he didn't want very badly to figure out what was wrong, he knows that he'll be soaked before he can get home no matter  _what_  he does, now.

"...Missed me that much after just a week, did you?"

Somehow, even now, Shawn can't bring himself to admit how true that is. Instead he laughs yet again, short, and muffled by the shoulder he's leaning on.

"It's just—a  _lot_  happened while you were gone, Lassie..."

"Did it—" Carlton genuinely wracks his brain for what could possibly have 'happened' outside of town, and of any other civilization for that matter. He feels oddly useless. "Did... the fishing not go very well?"

Shawn responds, first and foremost, with yet another furious kiss. Just to get his fill of them before he has to put his mind to more complex things.

 

*

 

The rain comes in just fast and hard enough to save Shawn for this evening—to allow him to insist that Lassiter hurry up onto mainland lest he be caught in the rising tide, and for it to be entirely appropriate.

But the next day comes and Lassiter returns to this pocket of a beach with no sign of dangerous weather coming their way... and Shawn has no choice but to face the fact that he's stalling.

Even so, it isn't at all a  _lie_  that he's curious about Lassiter's trip to England. He can at least tell himself that.

Carlton, meanwhile, has already relayed the story of his trip and annulment once in the past day. And his worry for Shawn only grows upon hearing him attempt to change the subject so abruptly.  _But_  a handful of details that he kept from Juliet and which he was planning on telling him eventually  _anyway_... do spring to mind.

"You may find it hard to believe, but I think I left with a better relationship with Victoria and infinitely less hard feelings than I had when I got there," he admits for the second time. He can't deny, it still feels damn good to say aloud. "As far as I can tell, she and I are even maintaining some kind of friendship. At the very least we're keeping in contact. She, ah...  _particularly_  wants to be kept up-to-date on matters of my love life."

"Really?" Shawn raises an eyebrow and cocks a wry smile. "What love life does she think that you have?"

"Well, I... told her just about everything. Not the  _finer_  details, mind you, but... the essentials of us, she knows."

He's surprised to find himself calm as he says that. But then, he was just as surprised at the time—that he felt so capable of confessing something like that to someone he hadn't seen in months. That he could so quickly feel as though he was his younger, more trusting self again. That, simultaneously, he could lie on a bed with Victoria and feel no infatuation nor desire... but merely comfort, and a sort of companionship he can't recall ever feeling with her before.

For hours, he lied on some of the finest linen he's ever seen, with his clothes still on, with his hands folded over his stomach, and with Victoria lying two feet away. They spent those hours talking and laughing.

Carlton in particular said many things that he otherwise would have had no chance nor reason to tell another person.

Where he recalls a great deal of relief, however, Shawn only appears shocked.

"You... told her," he repeats. Carlton nods. "... _Why?_ "

"First of all, you don't need to worry—she's got no problem with it and I knew that she wouldn't," he assures him, absentmindedly placing a hand on Shawn's knee. "She also believes you're human and wouldn't have believed me if I claimed otherwise... But. If you really must know, I told her because she deserved to know. We'd been through a lot together— _I_ , really... put her through a lot. She was my only real friend before  _you_  breezed into town..."

That makes sense, Shawn thinks, as unlikely as  _Lassiter's wife_  of all people understanding this thing between them still sounds.

He reminds himself how little he actually knows of their marriage, and how little of an opportunity he even had to know  _Victoria_. He knows he has a habit of feeling too confident in baseless assumptions.

He also knows that, for whatever reason, he now wants to know as much about Lassiter's marriage as the man is willing to tell him.

He covers the hand on his knee with his own, and he says,

"You think I 'breezed' into town? I'm insulted, Lassie. I obviously  _crashed_ , or... hurtled. Anything more exciting than  _breezed_... Hm. Exploded?"

"Hah—" Carlton can't help the pulse in his chest. "Speaking of you  _exploding_  into town... I'm sure it's a terrible idea to tell you this, but Victoria took  _ages_  to stop laughing at me when I let her know what had become of the petty thief whom I'd been 'obsessed with' on the night she left."

Shawn goes warm in an instant, in spite of the air-quotes and of the other man averting his gaze.

He squeezes Lassiter's hand.

" _Obsessed?_ "

...A terrible idea, indeed.

 

*

 

It isn't until after Gus stops by—funnily enough, only realizing that Shawn was ready to talk again by seeing Lassiter—and  _demands_  to know what all happened with Henry, that he can bring himself to explain it along with what followed. Just like he's always been, without even knowing it, Gus is the very push that he needed.

Or Shawn can only assume that he hasn't any idea of the practice he's providing him. To do so he would have to believe that Lassiter has been coming down here to talk about anything but their fishing plan.

Even less likely is that Gus would expect Shawn to tell any of  _this_  to anyone but him. Shawn  _himself_  has a hard time believing that he's made it to the point of sharing such personal information with someone other than Gus—that he would  _want_  to share things like this, especially.

The notion itself, that having said it all once when he had no choice would make it easier to say aloud to Lassiter, hardly even occurs to him... until he's already doing it.

Until he's learning that Lassiter, too, already knew that his father was living in An Daingean and neglected to tell him 'for his own good.'

But Shawn supposes that he should have guessed that much.

"The first time I mentioned his name also brought out the first real upset I  _ever_  saw out of you," Carlton adds in his defense. He shifts his legs to a more comfortable position on this rock and sighs. "Discounting your... little panic when I confiscated your skin. But it was  _obviously_  different, even before you just ran off—or, swam off. Without any word of warning, unable to even look me in the eye... I didn't become the Sheriff of this town out of  _luck_ , you know."

"...No, you sure fucking didn't," Shawn mutters, genuinely impressed. A little amused, oddly, that where Gus was endlessly apologetic  _Lassiter_  remains confident.

Maybe it's just that he's heard it from all angles at this point and that he's  _tired_ , but Shawn has a very easy time agreeing that he was justified. Maybe... it's actually comforting to see his own more unsavory traits mirrored back to him, in a way.

_As_  entirely justified as Carlton himself feels, though, he cannot help the surprise when Shawn leans into him without argument. Just a heavy breath and a cheek against his shoulder.

"It's funny, actually," Shawn sniffs. "Apparently, about half the reason I had for reacting like that wasn't even true."

 

*

 

Carlton doesn't make a habit of being in the position to comfort anyone. He knows, with nearly forty years of evidence to support it, that he's rarely any good. His own mother couldn't find solace in his lent ear, and his sister learned very quickly as a child not to come to him for problems that couldn't be fixed with a sword.

In hindsight, even Victoria was surely only  _pretending_  to feel satisfied by any words he had for her problems. He  _knows_ , difficult as it is for him to give anything else, that practical advice isn't necessarily what people want.

Considering the eye that Shawn often has, Carlton would have thought that  _he_  would know just as well how utterly useless he is in this respect.

All he can think to do is to hold him and to listen. So he does just that, trying his best to hide how awkward he feels.

"I think being a selkie might really be a curse, Lassie," Shawn confesses in a small, strained voice soon after he's done relaying the facts. Lassiter's hand, trailing up and down his spine, draws the words out of him. A breath of a laugh follows. "I know what I said before, about just... having fun all the time, but... I don't. I'm not even  _that_  different from other selkies I've met, at the core of it.

"We're... never satisfied. I don't know if it's the only reason I'm like this, but it's what the curse  _is_ —when we're seals we ache for land and when we're human we ache for the sea. And at the same time, transforming back and forth takes so much out of us that most of us  _only_  spend full moons and the occasional hour out of the day as a human. And... God, it's freeing to be a seal, but you know what, Lassie? I think most of us wish we could just be human. But then we  _know_  that we could be human permanently—if we break a rule of the curse, but  _that_  would only make us miserable once we had it! And it would only last as long as we could be kept from our skin, of course, because I'm sure that after a few years at it, it wouldn't even be _possible_  to resist...

"And then we'd be stuck as a seal, and we'd spend forever wishing to be human again just like my mother. And forever is... it's  _such_  a long time, Lassie. It's terrifying. And my  _mother_ —she... doesn't say so. I know my being there helps. But I also know how deeply sad this curse makes her sometimes. I feel it twice as clear as I can feel  _you_  when you're wearing my skin."

Carlton feels Shawn exhale a warm, cracked breath onto his neck, and Shawn pressing himself tighter against his side. Clinging tighter to the back of his coat and the far side of his waist. Silent, for the longest time since he began.

With that silence, Carlton feels an obligation to say something.

"...I'm sorry."

He means it.

But Shawn immediately hums another laugh.

" _I_  should be the one who's sorry. She only made the choice to be permanently human for my sake, and—" Without warning even to himself, Shawn lets out a loud, hiccuping sob. "...Dammit, Lassie, I didn't even  _have_  to be a part of this. I could have avoided the curse altogether, but instead I walked right into it! I was  _lucky_ , I... Most of us have exactly two choices, you know? Live a double life, or... live a life where your soul is in two pieces.

"But I was born human. I could have  _stayed_  human. I could have had one life and  _one_  soul. My mother tore her own soul apart to give me that chance... and I threw it away when I followed her."

He has no good reason to tell all of this to a man who has never lived his curse and thus cannot possibly comprehend it—who would more likely be  _annoyed_  by those facts of him than otherwise. The end of his confessions leave him feeling relief only for a moment before fear creeps in, and then regret, and only then an intense awareness of how  _stiff_  Lassiter has been—

Carlton then follows an impulse, risky as it feels, to hook one hand underneath Shawn's knees and pull his legs up onto his own lap. It's the only way he can think of, without moving very much himself, to hold Shawn tighter and with both arms.

Moreso, to press his lips to Shawn's temple.

He knows that he'll never truly know what it's like to be a selkie. Nor can he relate whatsoever to a relationship like that with  _any_  parental figure. So he especially knows that pointing either of those out would be even more useless than he's normally capable of being.

So he continues to simply hold him. As the minute passes, Shawn's heartbeat steadies against him. It seems to be enough.

But he also knows that sooner or later he must say  _something_ , and ultimately—because Carlton can't seem to stop himself from being cynical no matter the situation—what he says is what first occurred to him regardless:

"How amazing it must be, to love someone so much that you do that to yourself."

More silence passes, and he doesn't explain whether he means Shawn loving his mother or his mother loving him. Shawn doesn't ask. He only briefly even  _thinks_  to ask, before he realizes... how  _even_  Lassiter's breathing has become. How gentle the hand on his back remains. How warm the spot where he was kissed still feels.

How, truly, he feels better for having been reminded of that. How in  _no_  life does he believe he'd have chosen humanity over his mother.

How,

"I suppose if I never accepted my selkiehood, I wouldn't have been there to save you from drowning. And who even  _knows_  who might have been Sheriff in your place... Wait.  _Lassie_!"

As Shawn pulls away with urgency, Carlton loosens his grip so he can look back at him.

"What?"

"It was  _fate_ , Lassie. I  _saved_  An Daingean from being under the charge of someone like Swaggerty, or Drimmer, or... or, God forbid,  _McNab_. I shouldn't be guilty—I should be  _commended_!"

Even as Shawn pulls him closer for some kind of coping victory kiss, and as he himself chuckles into it, Carlton seriously considers throwing him into the water.

 

***

 

There's a sort of energy that selkies have and operate under that has no human equivalent, Shawn says. Best he can explain it is that his curse can only be pushed so much. And because he's such a reckless idiot—his own words—he's pushed it too far already.

That's what Carlton relays to Juliet, when she asks whether Shawn has quit his fishing plan.

"It isn't that he's  _quit_  so much as... Spencer's just worried he won't have the willpower to do another month on land this coming full moon, with how much he's already spent the previous two and then even  _now_ , while he was  _supposed_  to be recuperating... So he says that he needs to spend the next couple weeks with very minimal time as a human, if any."

Shawn never actually related that to whether he was capable of getting fish for him, but Carlton decided that they might as well wait, to be safe.

He also neglects to mention that fact to Juliet.

She at least agrees that it's more convenient that they hold off, what with the week of absence that Carlton racked up for them. However good of a job she may have done keeping control of the town, as well as preserving the fish that Shawn did bring in, in doing so she had no choice but to neglect certain house chores. Even the Apothecary has time to make up for, after attending to his project.

And Carlton feels heavily responsible for that, which is part of why he practically ordered that Shawn take a reprieve in the first place. Other parts, aside from his wariness of the selkie curse, include newfound tension and disfavor he's noticed from the Burgesses. He of course was  _well_  aware that even the ones who didn't outright hate him would hardly approve of him appointing a woman in his stead, and that those who did were never going to hate him any  _less_ , but...

If he doesn't want the whispers to escalate to genuinely calling for his removal, he needs to spend some time returned to his usual routine—to something even higher-functioning than his usual routine, really.

Juliet catches him up to speed on any and all developments that he missed. A few physical fights, a few verbal domestics, some lost children safely returned home, a merchant or two violating some ordinances and needing a warning, and a single genuine arrest for the crime of indecency.  _That_ , according to her, was the thing that seemed to anger the Burgesses the most, as they had trouble deciding whether they hated  _her_  or the drunken pervert more.

It sounds like a normal week in An Daingean, if not a bit more tame.

The three weeks following his return proceed, luckily, without much worse for Carlton than an exhausting pace. The two spent without any visits to the shore are also spent in longing for it, as well as in some shame that he should be losing his patience at  _this_  age and made so stupidly  _hopeless_  without certain company—

But he's only better for it by the time that the full moon does arrive.

And he once again, luckily, has an excuse of substance to join the others down at the shore. This time it's Juliet's suggestion that they bring the  _surprise_.

"I'm sure it could wait," she says, "but I want to show him right away. Cheer him up, you know, after all the stress he's been under this past month."

Carlton initially agrees, but then does a double-take. "...Wait. You know about that?"

"Oh, Gus mentioned it," Juliet shrugs. And then, slowly, tilts her head and frowns. "Actually, how do  _you_  know about it?"

He decides, just then, that they better head down to the shore as soon as possible so as to not waste any time. And he better walk fast enough to stay at least twenty paces ahead.

 

*

 

"You... you got me a  _kitten_?"

Remaining shamelessly naked, Shawn drops the clothes he was just handed and reaches out for what's in Juliet's arms instead.

And he looks to Lassiter in pure, beaming joy, and awe, and  _love_ , and—

"I got  _myself and O'Hara_  a kitten," Carlton corrects him with folded arms, but still smiles at the shine in Shawn's eyes. It doesn't even fade as he says that, regardless of how truthful it  _technically_  is. "...There was a litter that had just been weaned on Victoria's estate, and I thought it was about time I had something to chase off vermin."

" _And_  I'm sure Carlton just couldn't resist that little face," Juliet says, with a painfully wide grin herself.

"And we have a mice problem," he adds, monotone.

And he did, though he cannot say it now, think very purposefully of Shawn when he picked that one out of the bunch. He's sure that Shawn can tell, anyway, no matter what he says.

The kitten is in Shawn's arms, now, with the other two fawning over it no different than they might a human baby. And with Shawn still naked. And  _somehow_  with neither Juliet nor Gus appearing to have any issue with that.

It hasn't been terribly long since Shawn last saw a cat. Or even since he last held a young one. But he can hardly take his eyes off the little beast until the welled-up tears do it for him.

"What's her name?" he asks, desperately trying to blink it back into unobscured view.

Gus's head shoots up.

"How can you tell it's a 'her?'"

"Because Lassie of all people would make sure to get a cat who'll actually  _do_  the work, obviously."

Carlton cocks a smirk. "O'Hara insisted we let you name it."

Then  _Shawn's_  head shoots up, finally meeting his gaze again. And Juliet clears her throat.

"I didn't  _insist_. I just told you what Gus told me, which is that,"—and she puts on a comically deep voice—" _Shawn would throw a fit if he didn't get to choose the name._ "

Everyone but Gus lets out some form of a laugh, at that.  _Shawn_  in particular, who then lifts the kitten up in both hands, as though to get a better look in the moonlight. Even  _she_ gives a sleepy little mew.

"And you were absolutely right, my friend."

"I don't think you should take that as a compliment, Shawn—"

"I wasn't talking to  _you_ , I was talking to Little Lassie, here."

Carlton blanches while Juliet giggles furiously. "...Pick  _any_  name but that, I beg of you."

He already  _does_  plan to—he only thought to say that on an impulse, hoping to get an entertaining reaction. It would be a mouthful, anyway. And it would likely get confusing very quickly whether any of them were referring to the cat or their Sheriff.

But Lassiter's distress is too funny in the moment for Shawn to give it up right away. He decides to hold to it until after he finally pulls his clothes on.

 

*

 

All the surprise and overwhelming joy over the kitten nearly made him forget. He only remembers when Lassiter grabs his arm, intending to leave.

" _Wait_ , I—"

Shawn turns toward the sea to make sure she's still there. When he catches the silhouette of a seal out on a rock, he waves his arm up like they planned.

"What are you—?"

"My mother," he says, watching her roll off the rock and swim in their direction. He's sure that the others don't have the eye to see that far in this low light, and thus wouldn't know what he's looking at. "She... wanted to meet you all."

Some good  _has_  seemed to come out of this business with Henry, which is that he's continued to talk with his mother— _really_  talk, that is—much more than he has at all in the past thirteen years. It still tires her some, but she's clearly capable of far more than he thought. And she's expressed well enough, lately, that it's worth being able to know the details of his life. That it doesn't interfere with her freedom whatsoever.

There's a collective gasp from the others when she bounces up onto shore. It suddenly occurs to Shawn that one person here actually doesn't know her situation at all.

"Oh—Jules, before you freak out, just know that  _no_ , I was not created by any kind of...  _horrific_  consummation between human and seal. My mom is a selkie and has spent plenty of time as a human, she just... can't, anymore."

" _Good_  to know," she nods, mostly unable to keep her eyes off the seal by Shawn's feet.

Lassiter isn't either, meanwhile Gus... grins down awkwardly and raises his hand as though to wave to her.

"Hi, Mrs. Spencer."

_GUS!_  Shawn hears, while everyone else can only hear his mother's flippers slapping against herself excitedly. She bounces over and knocks her head playfully against Gus's legs.  _Oh, Shawn, tell him I think the short hair really suits him. I have a very hard time believing_ he _of all people still isn't married..._

"She says that if you don't get married in the next year, she'll be very disappointed," Shawn tells him in his most serious voice. "And that she thinks you should shave your head clean."

His mother throws him such severe eyes, then, that even Gus can tell none of that is true.

Juliet actually seems the most excited between them all by far, not unlike the sort of childlike wonder that she carried towards Shawn when he first arrived. She readily sits down on the sand to speak with Shawn's mother face-to-face, despite the fact that only Shawn can tell her when she's even responded anyway.

It's certainly nice, to see his mother readily trust Juliet and be enthusiastic in her company, too. He thinks the mere sight of a human  _woman_  might be especially refreshing to her.

But he also finds himself itching fiercely to move onto the last of his friends, and he all but cuts Juliet off in his impatience.

"And  _this_ , Mom," he says, marching over to put an arm around Lassiter's back and pull him closer to her, "...is the man I told you about, who has so graciously been hiding my sealskin for me. Of course, as the Sheriff, it  _is_  his job, but..."

He trails off and gives the other man's arm a gentle squeeze. In hopes, really, that he'll ease up.

In spite of the several minutes he's spent watching Shawn's mother interact with the others, and of how  _obviously_  this was coming, Carlton feels his blood rise harshly to his face the moment that Shawn mentions him. It feels very similar to the anxiety he felt upon meeting Victoria's father for the first time.

He doesn't know what he's  _afraid_  of, now, though.

"...Should I, um. Shake her... fin? Or just—"

"Lassie, just say hello."

As he does so, Shawn hears,  _He seems much older than he must be. From stress, I think. But... trustworthy without a doubt. And look at that nose!_

He can't help but laugh aloud, at that.

"What's so funny?" Carlton snaps, glancing between them. "Is she making fun of me—?"

"It's nothing," he lies. "Just... saying that she trusts you, because of your age. You know."

_It's not bad!_  she insists when Lassiter frowns in clear disbelief.  _It makes him look cultured. And—my, what dark hair he has... and his_ eyes _! ...Oh, Shawn, I'm sure that's why you like him so much._

With that, she slaps his leg with her tail, nearly knocking the both of them over. Now it's Shawn's turn to go red with embarrassment.

Carlton whips his head over in concern. "What was that for?"

"She, uh... likes you," is all he thinks he should say.

"...Does she  _really_ , or are you trying to protect my feelings?" he grumbles, hopefully low enough that the other two can't hear. "You know that you don't have to. I'm a grown man, Shawn."

"No, she really does. She thinks—"

She doesn't say it in any kind of words, but... just as well as Shawn can feel his soul right underneath the coat of the man he has a hold on, he knows that his mother can sense it there, too. He knows, for all that he has waxed poetic to her about this man in the past two weeks, that she has felt the very same affection. He knows that she can feel his heart  _now,_  and she can feel it beating alongside Lassiter's.

He feels hers beat right back for him, in a true understanding and  _immediate_  blessing that most could never hope to receive from their own mothers.

"She thinks you're good for me," Shawn mutters as softly as he can, knowing damn well the kind of palpitations he's about to cause.

 

***

 

Even with their fair share of drunkards and thieves that comes with any port town, and with their bad political dealings with the English, An Daingean has always been a nice place in its own right. Quiet, so long as you're away from the docks. Tucked away from the rest of the world and often the rest of Ireland, too. Queen Elizabeth's control only seems to reach them in theory, at times. Hardly even any Catholic authorities sit anywhere nearby.

None of that, however, properly soothes Carlton's nerves regarding him and Shawn.

He never gave it very much thought before that day after Lughnasa, just the same as he never had high enough hopes to think this  _possible_. And he thinks that he must have been in some kind of  _haze_  of pure, blinding happiness in the week following.

But he's had over a month and his heart has settled, and  _now_... he believes that he knows exactly what he wants.

He knows it as fiercely as he knows that if the truth of his and Shawn's relationship was discovered by the wrong people, he could have his authority and standing stripped away. He could be run out of his home. If the Sovereign personally cared or if even one of the Burgesses went to the trouble, he could be sent to trial in the name of Elizabeth herself, and he could be imprisoned or killed.

If enough townspeople cared, he could be denied a swift death before anyone else had the chance—he could stoned, or hanged, or burned. Nothing would be done about it, either. No one would care how much good he's done for this community. He wouldn't get justice.

Meanwhile Shawn, Carlton knows, could simply run if it was taken that far. He hasn't the same standing to lose in any case, even if he might  _think_  himself a community leader. He could heal. He could take his sealskin and transform and never possibly be caught.

Carlton has no intention to  _say_  any of this to Shawn any time soon, if for no other reason than that it would needlessly upset him. If he had to wager a guess, anyway, he wouldn't assume that Shawn would stick around to die with him. Not when he has so many loved ones who would be distraught without him, unlike himself.

It preemptively angers him to know this, but he understands. He would never want to begrudge Shawn for such impossible choices, nevermind the deeply selfish fire in his own heart.

It also terrifies him, but not enough to make him stop wanting this.

For the first time in a very long time, Carlton has been made to actually, shamelessly look  _forward_ to something. He's been given a light feeling in his chest that followed him through several days at a time, fueling him through otherwise dreadful tasks. He has consistently,  _somehow_ , been in what Juliet calls a "good mood."

And that was only the week before Shawn last took to the ocean. This past month has taken him somewhere else entirely.

Literally speaking, it's taken Carlton around the entirety of An Daingean and all of the other land within the still-growing walls. A very particular desire has taken hold of him,  _intensely_  so, and has dug itself deeper and deeper into not only his heart, but his mind. He has had more than vague, passive fantasies. He has made deliberate action. He has considered every possible factor. He has a  _plan_.

He is also... impatient. He cannot force himself to wait longer than one night after Shawn's return to land—nor does he see any reason to.

If being caught  _is_  inevitable, some part of him would prefer that be sooner than later, anyway.

 

*

 

"Why did you bring me here? Not that I'm complaining, since I wouldn't have been getting any sleep about now anyway, but..."

Shawn trails off, unable to track his thought while lost in Lassiter's dark, heavy gaze. The reflection of moonlight in his eyes makes them look bigger and almost distract from how large his pupils have gotten.

"Why do you  _think_?" Carlton breathes. He takes Shawn's hand and squeezes it.

Shawn's memories pulse. Lassiter leaned into his ear, much earlier this evening, and told him to meet him at the edge of his property when it was dark. His heartbeat was picking up, then. Lassiter met him as planned. Grabbed him by the arm and began leading him with hardly a word. Checked every side of them constantly the whole way. Stopped, after ten minutes, at the base of a very small and remote hill. The land becomes a rocky slope into the ocean about forty paces away. The waves are loud.

Shawn briefly attempts to decipher what Lassiter is feeling before realizing that he  _isn't_  wearing the sealskin. With that and a leap of his heart, he thinks he understands.

"You wanted me to help you collect frogs," he says in spite of himself. He just can't help it. "Wait, no—you took me here to kill me. I knew it. Except...  _wow_ , you missed out on a lot of perfect chances before this, Lassie. Playing the long game, I see."

Carlton tightens his lips so as not to laugh. A force of habit, at this point.

Then, instead of dignifying that response with a verbal correction, or even moving in for a physical hint, he lets go of Shawn's hand and begins pulling off his coat. He's careful to fold it neatly before setting it on the ground, and to then unfold the wool blanket that he held between his coat and his back, all without saying a word. He lays the blanket flat across the grass, takes a deep breath, and turns back to Shawn.

"I considered that little beach, but there's no predicting when high tide might hit in the night," he tells him. "And quite honestly I considered my own bed, too, but I couldn't think of a way to get O'Hara to stay somewhere else without making her suspicious... This was the most perfect spot I could find. No one has any purpose for this land. No one would have any reason to come here but for ours. It's low, it's hidden, it's  _far_  away from where anyone would hear us, least of all over those waves..."

Other than their very first time, they've hardly been more intimate than lips to lips. Shawn has neglected to initiate further out of time sensitivity, a lack of proper privacy, and... fear.

So now, with the implication as he understands it, his chest and face grow  _unbearably_  warm. His lungs heave almost dizzyingly fast. His  _eyes_ —God, he has to blink  _tears_  away...

"Lassie—"

Carlton strides to meet him again, hands coming to grip Shawn's biceps, face close enough to effortlessly breathe his own heat right onto Shawn's. He doesn't let him get a word out:

"I know the selkie legends and I know that there's truth to them—that you find unhappy husbands or wives and you love them, and... and I know it's true, Shawn, because it's what you've done to me. But that's over. Right now,  _I_  am going to do the loving, alright? I'm going to love the hell right out of you. I'm going to give you  _every_  last thing that you want, Shawn... whatever those are."

Unable to find a sound in himself that's comprehensible, completely flushed in the face and breathing scarcely, now, Shawn simply nods.

And with true certainty gripping his heart, Carlton surges forward to begin a deep,  _deep_  trail of kisses.

 

*

 

The casual nakedness that Carlton has grown all but accustomed to is  _nothing_  compared to this—to the sight of Shawn beneath him, flushed almost painfully hot to the touch. Bathed in moonlight. Braids undone, hair splayed out on the blanket below. Arms out, hands linked with his own and pinned to the ground.

Erect, and leaking, for him. Gasping, and moaning, and damn near crying, and  _begging_ , for him. Absolutely full  _of him_.

He is so fucking beautiful, and Carlton does not hesitate to tell him. He loses track of how many times he tells him. He can hardly help the words falling right out of his mouth, after some time.

Even moreso, he wants to get as much sound as possible out of Shawn, whether words or otherwise. He wants to make as much use of this privacy as he can and _hear_ , without an ounce of worry of others doing so, exactly how loved he can make Shawn feel.

He kisses every last inch of Shawn's skin.

He swallows Shawn down and shows no mercy as he sucks every last drop from him.

He tells him,  _I'm going to take you until you're hard and full of me, and then I'm going to do that again._

And he's true to his word.

Shawn, personally, has to wonder how Lassiter can actually rationalize using so much energy on him. Or how he can even  _have_  the energy to not be dead to the world after lying down beside him.

"Not that I don't feel like I just saw God," he mutters, soft as he can to keep his throat from going completely raw. "But... I think the sun is only a few hours away from rising. You don't suppose this will affect your job, will it?"

Honestly? Carlton is just as surprised as he is. And that strength  _is_  finally fading—his eyes are only open because he knows he cannot fall asleep here. He can just  _barely_ shrug.

"Mm... not really. You already take up every second of my leisure time and more, when I let you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the selkie curse lore isn’t entirely typical. I just took all the aspects from different legends that I liked, and which suited my needs.
> 
> And yeah, fae lore in general says that they don’t like cats and that cats don’t like them. But Shawn does what he wants.


	11. Seed Fall, Oak, Stay Home

Abigail's fur is growing out fast. According to Lassiter she's some kind of forest cat, so this sort of puffed-out mane  _was_  to be expected. But she must be older than he'd assumed to look this large already.

Black, speckled with chestnut brown, she's truly a gorgeous cat. Many others besides Shawn think so.

"I named her for a girl I had my heart set on when I was about half the age I am now," he readily tells anyone who asks. "I've long since gotten over the heartbreak, though, I swear. I just got thinking lately how I wish we could have stayed friends.  _And_ , somehow, the cat just looks like her in the face."

Plenty around town are enthusiastic to hold her, even for just a moment. Most of An Daingean's cats are relatively short-haired and scarred up a bit, and compared to them she's positively  _royal_. Shawn has no trouble putting her in anyone else's arms so they can have a mere  _slice_  of the happiness that he gets almost every day—least of all McNab, who despite his size is the most harmless person Shawn knows, and who seems to be impressed with every aspect of his life regardless.

He can't help but consider, sometimes, letting the man in on the secret of his selkiehood just to see how amazed he might be. But—thanks to Lassiter and Gus letting him know how terrible of a confidant McNab would make—Shawn decides that it's enough for both him  _and_  Abigail to receive his praise for actual accomplishments.

...Such as their respective well-kept manes, and the criminals they've bested whether under Lassiter's charge or in spite of it.

It's only a little over a week past the full moon that Abigail becomes a cat of the law. Granted, Shawn doesn't suppose that Lassiter intended nor wanted her to have that purpose. But she and her nose  _and_  her claws come in quite handy while he and Gus are attempting to sniff out a pickled meat thief.

"And that's just one bust under her little belt, but it's still one more than most cats have," he says, to several laughs, after the fact.

Their Sheriff is handling the thief with absolutely no mind to the bright red scratches all over his face. His "cousin" appears to  _want_  to do something about them. Her very close "friend" the Apothecary is insisting that he be paid if they ask him for help.

And Shawn is standing with a small circle of bystanders, with their small, purring hero cradled in the arms of McNab.

"Oh, I think she likes me!" he says, practically with tears in his eyes.

Shawn is fairly sure that Abigail is just tired from the bellyful of meat that she got as a reward, but he wouldn't want to spoil the man's fun by telling him so.

He also wouldn't even be able to if he wanted, for his breath is very abruptly taken at the sight of a familiar face beyond the small crowd. A face that, in truth, he's been expecting to see ever since he got back onto land.

And which he's simultaneously been hoping would take longer to show up. Shawn supposes he isn't the only one who's grown up some, then.

God. He might as well, if he's going to be sticking around.

"Hey, McNab—do you mind holding onto her for a bit while I run a quick errand?" he thinks to ask.

McNab lights up and nods his head vigorously, just as Shawn knew he would. Shawn then mutters a quick thanks and jogs past the crowd.

Henry is the first one to break eye contact before Shawn makes it to where he's standing.

"I thought you were a hermit now," he greets, frowning. "Or were you making your monthly trip down to the pub to drink your sorrows away?"

That only seems to make his father more reluctant to look at him. Instead the man shoves his hands in his pockets, kicks at the dirt, and glances around a bit.

"As a matter of fact, I was. But I, uh, also thought I mind find you."

"Mm. I bet you  _didn't_  think you'd also find I wasn't lying about helping out the Sheriff, huh?"

Henry actually laughs, then. Shawn can't tell if it's genuine or not—but then, he never really could, with him.

He looks behind him to find Gus and Lassiter and Juliet all still down the road. After a moment the former catches his gaze and stares back in evident worry. After another, Shawn nods and waves, and turns back.

"Hey... why don't we walk and talk, before people start to notice we're related."

 

*

 

He'd feel too guilty not to tell Henry that  _Mom said she loves you, too._  But that doesn't necessarily make relaying the information feel  _good_ , at all.

He imagines that Henry feels similarly about admitting that  _solving that little scuffle back there? Not too shabby, kid._

It all just feels too damn awkward. So Shawn skips any other pleasantries and gives a basic summary of all he's done since he showed up in town about seven months ago. How he's mostly spent every other month on land, just like—as he recently learned—his mother used to do before becoming pregnant.

"Who's been holding onto your skin?" he asks. "Gus?"

"Sheriff Lassiter, actually."

Henry barks another laugh. Shawn smirks to himself and says nothing about it.

"...It's a girl, isn't it? You're actually settling down after all these years and you've got a girl holding your skin for you... Damn, Shawn. You really are exactly like your mother, aren't you?"

None of that even sounds like it's  _intended_  as any kind of insult, but something about it incenses him. His smirk fades, and his chest and hands grow hot, and his throat swells nearly shut, and... indignation rises.

" _No_ , Dad," he snaps. Henry looks over, confused. " _No_ , it's... I'm not  _settling_. Not anything close to the way you think. I understand that Mom did what she did for love, but... it's for that same exact reason that I  _can't_  do it! Hell, maybe you never could have imagined it from me, Dad, but I don't  _want_  to be a burden on the people I love."

Part of him feels bad for saying that and implying that that's what his mother was. But then,  _she_  didn't watch either of her own parents do the same thing and go through the same misery before choosing it herself. For that, Shawn thinks he can resent the notion of him just being  _that_  stupid.

...The idea of ever being as miserable as his mother was,  _and_  having to hide it to keep his loved ones from feeling terrible with him?

The idea of someday asking for his skin back, whether it's a temporary desire or a true one, and then putting Lassie or Gus or even Juliet in the position of making that choice?—of deciding whether to deny him and keep him miserable, or to return to him the one thing that will keep him from ever being human again?

He won't. He won't  _do_  that to any of them.

"...There wouldn't be any point in settling, anyway," Shawn eventually adds in a deceivingly conversational tone. "I'm  _entirely_  capable of living a human life and still keeping my sealskin close. I can make the double life work. I can cheat the curse. It's what I've  _always_  been doing—and you know me, Dad! I can cheat anything and anyone."

Henry remains silent for a second too long. Shawn wonders if his voice betrayed his fears, and he dreads whatever lecture his father is likely about to go into... but,

"Hm." That's all Henry says.

"What?"

"Well, Shawn, you might just be right about that." He makes a tight-lipped smile and gives Shawn a short, but nevertheless jarring pat on the shoulder before looking away again and taking a breath. "But you  _have_  always been pretty unpredictable. So if you ever happened to decide to be human for good—or if it happens on accident, since we both know how prone you are to those..."

His father stops walking, and puts his hand on Shawn's shoulder again. He can only stare back in bewilderment before the man seems to gather his thoughts.

"...Don't even  _think_  about giving the skin to me. I've learned my fucking lesson, kid. Now, if I invite you up for dinner, do you think you can be civil this time?"

Shawn blinks.

_Huh._

"I don't know, depends if you can."

 

***

 

When Michaelmas comes around, Vick is re-elected as Sovereign. Carlton doesn't suppose that anyone expected otherwise, but it's still a relief to know that his plan won't have been for naught.

Much more noteworthy, meanwhile, is that Shawn attends Mass for the first time in over a decade.

He has no  _religious_  motivation—he is fae, after all. Some kind of demon, by Catholic standards... But he  _is_  aware of the importance of this day to the community, however minor of a feast day it is compared to others. He's aware that this is the reason that  _Lassiter_  feels socially obligated to attend lest he risk suspicion cast upon him.

Shawn is furthermore aware of the risk he poses in associating so closely with him if he himself does not attend. The notion that "Sheriff Lassiter seems a bit too close with that unrepenting pretty-boy, doesn't he" would become common, if it isn't already. Rumors would abound.

And what do you know, his supposedly demonic presence  _doesn't_  send the place up in flames.

More unbelievable yet, at least to Carlton, is that Shawn's decision to attend comes without even the slightest mention of it from himself.

What surprises him nearly as much is that Shawn also chooses to spend the next month in the sea—that he essentially chooses to miss out on all but an hour of Samhain, in particular. He thought for sure that Shawn would  _refuse_  to miss it and he wouldn't even have begrudged him that.

But, in his own words,

"I'd rather get those fish for you as soon as I possibly can, Lassie. I might as well be crossing to the Otherworld all the time on my own, anyway. Save me some sweets, though, will you?"

Carlton gets the feeling that he doesn't entirely mean  _food_  by that, due to the wink Shawn gives afterward. He also quickly decides that he will indeed save those 'sweets' for him, considering the sacrifice that he knows Shawn is still making for his sake.

Along with that promise, he happily waits for Shawn to return to his human form in November before doing anything with all of his catches. It's only fair, of course, that he be there to see the fruits of his own labor.

The very morning after the full moon, they waste absolutely no more time.

They hardly even allow the Sovereign time to rub the crust out of his eyes before knocking on his door, it seems.

"...Is there a problem, Lassiter? You don't suppose it can wait, do you?"

"Yes, there is a problem, Sovereign—and no, it  _cannot_  wait. You told me you would 'consider' my fishing industry proposal about nine months ago and have decided  _nothing_  since then, in spite of my repeated insistence. I was fed up with waiting, so I thought I'd go ahead on my own and  _prove_  to you that the industry is worthwhile."

Vick is undoubtedly still very tired, unable to process all that well enough to respond before Carlton steps aside.

In doing so, he reveals Shawn, Juliet, and Gus all standing proudly beside his boat, inside of which is a massive net of fish. What must be hundreds if not thousands of fish, all fresh enough not to be putrid from the Sovereign's doorstep.  _That_ , really, should be the factor that drives this home.

Just in case, Shawn thinks to grin and wave extra friendly, and to shout, " _Hey!_  I didn't know the Sovereign spoke Irish?"

And Vick looks significantly sobered, if not also somewhat baffled, after that.

He rubs his eyes, takes a long whiff, and stands up straighter.

"I must say, Lassiter, there are certainly  _much_  more convenient times you could have dropped by, but... I can't say that you were wrong to be dead-set on this thing. How about this—you give me a bucket of those, use the rest of the catch to find willing fishermen, and  _then_  get back to me. I trust your judgment."

Nevermind how intensely the Sovereign yawns promptly after, Carlton considers that a success.

 

***

 

TWO MONTHS LATER

 

The last time the Apothecary was in or even near his home without Shawn by his side—without Shawn even on land at the moment—Carlton hardly knew a thing about him outside of his profession. In all the time since then, he's still rarely spoken to him about anything that wasn't to do with Shawn. Not even his own health.

Now, while he cleans his boat, he isn't any less surprised to see the man walking up on him completely alone.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" he shouts once he can make out his face. When Gus doesn't respond, Carlton waits until he's more definitely within earshot: "If you're looking for O'Hara, she said she'd be in town."

He's worried for a split second that it's actually something to do with Shawn, that perhaps Gus spent some hours down at the beach waiting for him and he never came, or that he in fact made a mistake in his choice of words and sent Shawn running—

Until Gus walks closer and says,

"No, I know she isn't here. That's actually...  _why_  I'm here, Lassiter."

Carlton's eyebrows immediately shoot up. He then steps away from the boat, wrings out a rag into a bucket of water, and sets it down. And he steps closer to Gus and folds his arms.

"Okay, I'll bite. What could you possibly have to tell me that you don't want O'Hara to hear?"

Gus takes a deep breath. "...Well." And clasps his hands in front of his stomach. "I want your permission to ask her to marry me."

For a moment he's caught too far off guard to do so much as blink. Then, he laughs.

"You want... wait. You  _know_  that I'm not in charge of her, right? She can do what she damn well pleases."

"That's why I'm not asking permission to  _marry_ , I'm asking permission to  _ask_ ," he says. "Or, I guess... really, I'm asking if you think it's a good idea for me to ask her. I know that she doesn't  _need_  me, but—I suppose you could say that I need her. I can't even make  _eye contact_  with my mother without her asking me when I'll be married... And I love her, Lassiter. And you're by far the closest family she has, _and_  you're the Sheriff, so forgive me, but I thought I'd err on the side of caution and get your opinion first."

Carlton can see, for the first time, exactly why Juliet likes him so much. Though he's sure he'd have seen it sooner if he ever bothered to have a real conversation with the man.

He at least never needed one to find it completely unsurprising that Gus would want to marry her. Shawn brings up his frustration with "how long he's taking with her" almost every time either of their housemates are otherwise mentioned. It occurs to Carlton, now, that all of Shawn's badgering may ironically be why Gus waited until an off-month to ask.

"Consider my forgiveness granted," he says, with a slight laugh, as he unfolds his arms. "...Why don't you come in? Get you some tea."

 

*

 

There is one problem that Carlton has with the idea of their union.

"I don't know if you realize this, but Juliet lives with me not just out of convenience for herself, but for mine.  _Mostly_  for mine, really... I need her to keep house. And—I won't lie, I've grown...  _very_  accustomed to having her live here. If she moved out and in with you—"  _I'd miss her,_  he thinks, wringing his hands. "Well, if she even  _wanted_  to do that. I'd be forced to allow either my home or the town suffer in her absence."

It sounds selfish, now that he's said it aloud. It depends far more on Juliet's answer than Gus asking for her hand in the first place, regardless. But with Gus proposing that big of a  _change_  to him... He feels like he only just got properly used to the last one.

"I know it wouldn't be...  _conventional_ ," Gus says with a grimace—but that seems to be from the tea. He must be too polite to just say that it's too strong for him. "But... I was actually thinking. Shawn's been more or less living with me every other month, and I've been happy enough to  _let_  him live with me, I really have. He's like a brother to me. But I just don't think I have the room to house both him  _and_  Juliet. And Juliet probably wouldn't find it very comfortable, either."

"So... you're suggesting that you go ahead and marry her even knowing you can't live together? I don't see much of a point in that case."

"...Um. Not exactly. I suppose... what I am suggesting is that the two of  _us_ , maybe... switch housemates. When Shawn is on land, at least. He isn't the  _most_  responsible with keeping a home, and he can't cook very well, and he definitely isn't as handy as Juliet is, but I'm sure that other things about him would make up for all that."

Carlton doesn't realize quite how tightly he's squeezing his hands together until he hears a knuckle pop.

Or how long he's been holding his breath, until his lungs throb in pain.

"What are you talking about?" he manages, though in a heavily strained voice.

Gus just sighs, and... seems to relax even further than he was before.

"Lassiter, it's okay. I know what you and Shawn have been doing."

His lungs let  _everything_  go in relief.

"Oh, thank God." He practically lets himself fall over onto the table while he gains his breath back. Not only from just now, but for  _all_  the time that he's spent wondering if this secret would be between just the two of them forever. Discounting Victoria, of course. "Did... did Shawn tell you?"

"Not outright," Gus shrugs. "But he didn't need to. To be honest, Sheriff, I think sometimes Shawn underestimates how well I know him. Please don't tell him I said that, though."

"I won't," he promises, though absentmindedly. All that's on Carlton's mind, now, is the idea of being able to  _live_  with Shawn.

Not even necessarily for Shawn to replace Juliet as his housemate, but... the mere idea of Shawn being able to sleep in his bed. Of Shawn being next to him when he wakes up. Of affection and passion between them becoming a casual, rather than secretive thing. Of his house actually being a safe place for them without any need to worry about when Juliet will come back.

Except,  _now_  he has to think—

"You haven't told Juliet, have you?"

Gus jumps, just slightly, at his sudden tone. "No, I haven't."

"...Good." He nods and calms himself right back. "You, um... you know her far more intimately than I do—or would ever  _want_  to, for that matter... Does she seem, to you, like the sort of person who would hate me if she knew this about me?"

At  _that_ , the other man actually looks surprised. But it's very brief before he furrows his brow and folds his hands, and pauses for several seconds.

"You know what, nothing like this has ever really come up," he starts, slowly, "but  _Shawn_  is... you know him. He's unpredictable. People either love him or hate his guts and I don't think I've ever seen an in-between. And Juliet's always  _obviously_  adored how unpredictable and how far gone from the norm that Shawn is—to the point that, honestly? I was worried for a little bit that  _she_  would be the fling that Shawn stuck around to have before leaving, like he usually does.

"And... you have to understand, Lassiter... I've never seen Shawn do this. He's visited a handful of times since he first left An Daingean, in between all his other travels—sometimes for so long without even sending any letters that I thought I might truly never see him again...," he sniffs, but quickly gathers himself. "Only for him to casually show up in town a month later, just to stay the night. Or the month, if I was lucky. And then he'd be right back in the ocean for another year.

"And I'd honestly come to terms with it. That's just how Shawn always  _was_ , growing up, you know? Much more adventurous than I was, always wanting to travel, loving the ocean  _especially_... And I think it's just a part of him. I think he'd be like this even if he wasn't a selkie, and I wouldn't even be able to blame him. I would never want to keep him from being happy, either, so I've never asked him to stay any longer than he planned to. I wouldn't have wanted to make him feel bad. But—

"But  _you_ , Lassiter," Gus says, and breathes a laugh. "...I don't know if it was actually you. God, I hope it wasn't  _just_  you. But I think you definitely intrigued him with that shit you pulled about McNab's clothes. And now... this is by  _so_  far the longest he has spent in An Daingean since he left. And if you're  _any_  reason for that—which, really, I think you are—then you're part of my family as much as Shawn is, as far as I'm concerned. And I... have gotten off track, I think. I had a lot of things I wanted to say and I... got a little emotional? But, um.

"To answer your question, Juliet has spent enough time with Shawn and I  _both_  to know that we consider her family, too. If she ever was going to hate you for loving Shawn, she would never have wanted to be around us in the first place."

By the time he's done with that, the cup of tea in front of him has stopped steaming. Carlton's own cup is empty from all the time he had to drink it.

And now he can't tell whether he's warm from emotion, or from the tea.

Ultimately, Carlton wipes his eyes, thinks of all the Shawn-shaped spaces in this house, and tells him,

"I think you should go ahead and ask. Just... be prepared for her to say no. And if she does, don't tell her you came to me. Actually, just to be safe, don't tell her regardless."

He shares a chuckle with Gus, then. With no other reason to stay here and keep Carlton from getting his boat clean, the two of them stand up soon after. And after a short moment, Gus startles him with a hug.

When Carlton fails to react soon enough, Gus merely chuckles again and pats him roughly on the back before heading toward the door.

When Carlton  _does_  react, it's to call after him. He stops in the doorway.

" _Hey_ —um." He clears his throat and tries to find a casual stance. "I've wondered and never had the chance to ask... What  _is_  'Gus' actually short for? Is it Angus? Augustus? Or...?"

"Oh!" The Apothecary gives him a lopsided smile and shrugs. "Neither. It's just Gus."

 

***

 

By all means, Shawn should be painfully bored with An Daingean. He should be halfway to the Americas, by now, to make up for all this time spent in one place.

And he won't deny it, he can't help but feel the desire for some new scenery at times. The urge to travel has never not been in his heart. But... amazingly,  _fondness_  for people that he knows and loves has taken a much stronger hold.

If only he had been a bit less selfish in the past, he feels sure that this would have happened sooner. That he would have made this town his home again years ago, and he would have perhaps even taken a role of  _working with the law_  years ago. He may have even met Lassiter sooner. Maybe before he was married and before there was anything for Shawn to ruin. Maybe at a time when he'd have been more easily recognized as Lassiter's savior—when he'd have been  _amazed_  instead of conflicted.

Maybe, but Carlton tells him, without hesitation, that he prefers what  _did_  happen to those fantasies a thousand times over. That he would trade the life that Shawn has given him for absolutely nothing. Not even the guaranteed safety of this town itself.

He's wearing Shawn's sealskin on his back when he says it, too, so Shawn knows that he's telling the truth.

 _Nothing_  can be guaranteed for Carlton, anyway, as deeply as his life has always depended on it. He fears the power of the whims of others and subsequently desires control. Then for Shawn, they both know just as well that his own safety is almost  _always_  guaranteed, no matter how far he pursues the unexpected.

Yet Shawn finds comfort in the sort of stability that he offers.

And Carlton  _trusts_  him.

He trusts him with his hair as easily as Shawn trusts him to braid his. He trusts him with his body. It isn't entirely immediate, but he trusts him with his home. He trusts him with his most private belongings. He trusts him with his town and the safety and honor of the people in it, if need be. He trusts him with his secrets, most often on purpose. He trusts him with his  _heart_ , miraculously enough.

If he had the capacity to, he would also not hesitate to trust Shawn with his soul the very same way that Shawn has entrusted  _him_  with his own for so long.

The closest thing that Carlton can offer him is to continue returning his sealskin each month, without question but for how well he's feeling. If he pressures Shawn to do anything, it's to take his time in the water and only come out when he knows that he can handle it. He tries to understand the curse and the tides that pull it, and to further understand Shawn himself.

He kisses Shawn's knuckles as he pushes the skin into his hands. He watches a pair of tanned legs disappear into the water, followed by a seal's tail kicking up through the surface.

He trusts Shawn to keep coming back, no matter how long it may take.

 

*

 

*

 

*

 

_And if I ever lose my hands, lose my plough, lose my land,_

_Oh, if I ever lose my hands, I won't have to work no more._

 

_And if I ever lose my eyes, if my colours all run dry,_

_Yes, if I ever lose my eyes, I won't have to cry no more._

 

_And if I ever lose my legs, I won't moan, and I won't beg,_

_Yes, if I ever lose my legs, I won't have to walk no more._

 

_And if I ever lose my mouth, all my teeth, north and south,_

_Yes, if I ever lose my mouth, I won't have to talk_ _—_

 

" _Did it take long to find me?" I asked the faithful light._

" _Did it take long to find me? And are you gonna stay the night?"_

 

_Oh, I'm being followed by a moonshadow,_

_moonshadow, moonshadow._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to the soundtrack on [8tracks](https://8tracks.com/captainlucifer/moonshadow-fst) (includes notes for each song) / [youtube](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xcZujjYQOU0&list=PLpO1ETfG6QGbP7pKh-7DSwHEoe9iRWWeU)
> 
> The rebloggable fic post/graphic is **[here](http://bassiter.tumblr.com/post/175389782746)**.
> 
> And here’s some final notes:
> 
> You may have noticed that, unlike pretty much any canon-typical notion of Shawn and Lassiter’s romance that I’ve written (and otherwise believe is realistic), and in spite of the length of this fucking thing, the arc from First Real Meeting to First Kiss spanned less than 6 months. At the most generous, the real culmination/commitment/whatever you want to call it happened only after 7 months of knowing each other. 
> 
> And my biggest reason for that is honestly that, even though I find like, 3-5 year-long slowburns really interesting and appealing and LOVE it in the context of them, it’s also inevitably very angsty by virtue of the length of time alone. And they can frankly be exhausting and upsetting, and goddamn, they DESERVE to have a universe where they don’t have to spend years and years of pining for each other before something happens. 
> 
> The secondary reason is the time period. While I think humans have always been capable of the complexities and specific desires we have in our relationships today, that’s dependent completely on modern society. We have readily available sources on how our brains work and what’s actually the healthiest for us and what will make us happy in the long run. Travelling and long-distance communication is easier than ever. We know that we could feasibly meet millions of different people, and that we have absolutely no reason to settle for the first person who ever likes us back. With specialization of labor and industrialization and advancements in technology, we have the free time to seek out the absolute BEST, and so we do. But, not too long ago, people just... did not have that kind of free time. Or any concept of holding out for the best. They also ESPECIALLY knew that they could very easily contract a deadly disease or get raided by the English tomorrow. Life was fleeting! Death was always around the corner! No one has TIME to worry about “but is he relationship material, though?”
> 
> None of that is to say, though, that Shawn and Lassiter’s being together in this story is at all foolish or a mistake. I would, truly, like to believe that they’re soulmates. And that soulmates exist in general, and that it simply means that two or more people will be naturally drawn together. That they’ll always find each other, and they’ll always have an intense connection, and they’ll BELONG together in some capacity or another. 
> 
> And I’d think that two people can be soulmates in any time, in any setting, in any society or lack thereof. It’s just the context of their relationship and the way they personally conceptualize it that will change.
> 
> Some final fun historical facts + the final honorable mention:
> 
> \- Not a fact so much as clearing up a misconception. Samhain is NOT pronounced “Sam Hain” but rather, “sowin”  
> \- I’m actually not being anachronistic by including the notion of Gus and Juliet being married! While interracial marriage wasn’t always socially accepted, there were no laws restricting it yet.  
> \- An Daingean didn’t actually get into the fishing industry until the early 1800s. But as historically accurate as most other things in this story are, I don’t see why this can’t be a bit divergent from history for Lassiter’s sake.  
> \- You could probably tell, but. Abigail (the person she’s named for, not the actual cat) is Abigail Lytar.  
> \- As far as Vick goes, I’ll be honest, even though I’m using he/him (bc a Sovereign really would always have been a man) I still couldn’t help but just imagine canon Vick. Either way, the interpretation is completely up to you - whether Sovereign Vick is just Karen Vick’s husband, or if he’s a genderbend, or just Karen Vick in disguise as a man for the social status, and/or if she’s perhaps a closeted trans woman in this universe. 
> 
> Other recommended listening: Rhiannon Giddens (particularly her work as Gaelwynd), Dan Oakenhead, Lisa Hannigan, Novo Amor, Seo Linn, Fleet Foxes, Damh the Bard, Suzanne Vega, and William Coulter
> 
> Recommended watching: Song of the Sea, The Secret of Roan Inish, Dancing at Lughnasadh, The Water Horse, [THIS](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QH_dOuC8a0c&) youtube documentary on the Fairy Faith, The Worst Jobs In History (a documentary series, also available in full on youtube), and of course..... Luck of the Irish.


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